


Twice the Heart

by dinosaur



Series: night city grows [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexuality, BDSM, Dating, Demisexuality, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonbinary Character(s), Original Character(s), Other, Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Negotiation, Smoking, Texas, Trans Character(s), Vomiting, gender euphoria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 107,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6533452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaur/pseuds/dinosaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn meets Niall first, because everyone meets Niall first. But he meets Harry second and he likes to think that’s important, too.</p><p>Zayn is 19 and bright-eyed at the way Niall holds the neck of a guitar, at the way Harry tucks away curls like absent seductions, at the tacos on 38th street, at the way he can almost cup the potential of the present in his hands and feel it burning strong, strong, stronger.</p><p>-</p><p>Texas Uni AU, where Zayn is in love a lot and people are complicated but that’s okay because home is where the heart is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been an utterly massive network of handholding and guidance and i want to say a very sincere and giant YOU MAKE MY HEART SING to everyone: alex, heather, husky, kel, may, the entirety of lpe and pomd, for feedback, suggestion notes and love - so much love. my betas, elaine, arden and gillian for brilliance and undying support and always going the extra mile for me.  
> thank you. thank you all.
> 
> **in an effort to remain accessible to people who may be interested in this verse from the prequel,[(i wanna feel like) fireworks in the night](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2530835), i have uploaded one version of the fic with sexual content and one without.  
> **   
>  **this chapter contains part 1 of the fic with sexual material akin to NC-17 rating. please see chapter 2 for part 1 of the fic without sexual material.**
> 
> please feel free to [message me](http://wepush.tumblr.com/message) for more details. graphic posts may be found [x](http://wepush.tumblr.com/tagged/tthgraphic).
> 
> *
> 
> with the exception of paul's, all of the places and events mentioned in this fic are real and should be visitable, if you are so inclined. as always, i recommend the mojitos. as predicted, i would not recommend drinking enough to befriend a toilet.
> 
> safe readings xo  
> 

 

 

Niall finds him on the roof of the jeep. Its 2 AM and August, which means the temperature of the metal under Zayn's bare shoulders is finally just right and the air around them is a familiar heavy warmth. Zayn could fall asleep here, and has, too many times before, the air tucked up around his chin like a blanket.

Niall tugs at Zayn's hand as he starts to climb up the side of the car. Zayn steadies him carefully, mindful of how the wobbliness of Niall's knees mixes badly with the wobbliness of the aging jeep door.

They keep their hands tucked together after Niall gets up and flops down half on top of Zayn.

Niall squeezes once, brushes his thumb over the bird outline. Zayn squeezes back, lets his head rest back on the bike rack.

For a while, the only sounds are a distant folky bar gig and the not so distant June bugs. Texas has a funny way of always making him think he's back driving through hill country. Like a constantly developing roadtrip polaroid. He likes it. Steady and simple and splotchy around the edges.

"Love you." Niall presses a kiss over top the one already on Zayn's chest.

Zayn makes a basic heart across Niall's body, muscle memory, easy without looking. Right, left, center.

"Love you." he says.

"Doing alright, yeah?"

"S'okay." Zayn says, looking at the slope of the roof against the skyline. “How’re L1 and L2?” It’s a distraction, a left turn signal on the straight path that conversations with Niall usually take.

Niall taps his fingers sharply against Zayn’s hip, but he goes with the detour. Zayn squeezes his hand.

"They're fighting about something utterly meaningless. Probably a foreplay thing." Niall says. Zayn can hear him smiling. "We'll head back in and stub our noses on the door ‘cause Lou's got Liam pinned to it again."

He's always so easy about it, now. Zayn knows it wasn't always like that, but it's nice, it's so nice to see it now. Zayn endures a few tufts of hair to the face to kiss the top of Niall's ear. Under his hands, on top of his body, Niall giggles.

“I miss Haz,” he says, without meaning to.

Niall pulls up on an elbow and coos at him.

Zayn grimaces but allows Niall’s chin to dig into his chest. For a moment, he watches Niall watch him. He wonders what Niall’s seeing, always more perceptive than people like to believe. He supposes it’s easier to dump your baggage on Niall, say thanks and book a plane out, if you think he carries it like a trolley instead of a person.

Zayn watches Niall pick up what Zayn’s setting down, turn it over carefully.

Niall holds other people’s confessions like paper cranes of notes and memories made uncliché, tucked gently into his pockets for safekeeping and - and it makes Zayn’s heart hurt sometimes.

“Y’all okay, Z?” Niall says, almost not a question.

“We are. We’re, we’re us. Y’unno? But it’s – It’s just.” Zayn looks away.

“Much.”

“Yeah.”

Zayn remembers weeks curled together with Niall in a rickety twin xl, under a soft, soft patchwork made by Maura. Zayn remembers being surrounded by glow in the dark pillows, remembers reading Alice and Wonderland out loud like it would pull the absurd and sad from the reality around them and into fiction. Zayn remembers learning how to fall easily into someone.

Zayn remembers how different it was, later, with Harry.

 

\---

 

Zayn meets Niall first, because everyone meets Niall first. But he meets Harry second and he likes to think that's important, too.

Niall is 18 and bright like a fluorescent restroom light in the pounding static club of newschoolnewstatenewpeople that Zayn is locked into early freshman year. Niall takes him in, lends him some notes and takes him home.

Harry is 18 and bright like spotlights on the stage, a crescendo that lasts too long and staggers off the edge of the step with a roar from the black and blue and booze surrounding Zayn in late freshman year. Harry takes him in, gives him a dental dam and takes him down the rabbit hole.

Zayn is 19 and bright-eyed at the way Niall holds the neck of a guitar, at the way Harry tucks away curls like absent seductions, at the tacos on 38th street, at the way he can almost cup the potential of the present in his hands and feel it burning strong, strong, stronger.

That was then.

Without meaning to, without discussing it, they fall into something gently, fall into something gentle.

And now is –

Now is Zayn curled into the corner of their raggedy, dumpster diving gold medal of a couch, with a handful of undergraduate papers he’s supposed to be grading, watching Liam explain the steps of a proper pole vault to Harry over skype.

“It’s not a turn really, H. It’s more like a twist.”

“Ahh, so what you’re saying is I’m right.” There’s a faint clapping sound from the laptop. “It is a pole dance.”

“Harry.”

“Liam.”

“Har _ry_.”

“Li _am_.”

“ _Zayn_.” Zayn adds, refraining from Ed Murphy styling it, but only just.

Liam laughs back at him, torso turning enough that Zayn gets a glimpse of Harry on the screen, zebra yoga pants on and curls up in a scarf. Zayn eyes Liam’s matching bandana and soft sweatpants with a grin.

They’re such dorks.

Yoga is Harry and Liam’s chosen We-Are-Trying-Out-This-Queerplatonic-Thing skype date pastime right now. Harry and Zayn just have conversations or mild arguments, or sex. Zayn’s not judging, though. Usually, Harry and Liam do _naked_ yoga. He eyes their pants with a small hmph. One unseasonable cold front through the southwest and everyone thinks they’re freezing.

He buries his nose into the collar of his Stolen From Harry’s Drawer sweater.

“ – not what I said, Liam!”

Liam laughs again and does something weird with his legs, body bent strange.

There’s a distant sound of keys jingling just before the front door opens.

“Lucy!” Niall calls.

“Ricky!” Liam and Harry chorus.

There’s a round of giggles. Zayn smiles, smug.

Niall’s head pops around the hallway wall. His hair is down and windswept and his eyes are bright as ever. There’s a familiar vibration happening almost continuously from his cell phone.

Zayn shakes his head a bit and makes another mark on an essay for improper citation.

“Hey, Haz, Liam, Zayn,” Niall nods at them and then glances down at his phone.

“Hello.”

“Heya.”

“Mmm,” Zayn says, making another note about APA styling.

“You do know, Harry, that it’s 20 past 3, right?”

Zayn looks up from the Supposed Essay to see Liam doing cool down stretches and Niall holding up his phone pointedly.

“Absolutely,” Harry says, smiling.

“Great,” Niall says, smiling back.

Liam starts laughing, a little embarrassed-like and Zayn taps his pen. Harry’s forgotten something, then. He laughs quietly.

Liam breaks first, “That party? Josanna’s, I think.”

Niall _uhuhs_ loudly.

There’s a moment of silence as Harry freezes in messing with zir curls and Zayn licks his finger to flip the page. Their house is remarkably quiet for a college rental, really, Zayn thinks absently. They ought to get prorated utilities for that or something.

“Oh,” Harry says, finally.

The call beeps out.

Niall rolls his eyes as he walks into the kitchen, phone beeping a few more times.

Zayn watches him go. Popularity sounds exhausting, honestly.

Zayn is glad to be one of Niall’s best friends in more ways than he can goddamn count, but he’s even gladder that he doesn’t have to digitally keep up with him.

Snuggling back into the couch, he draws a paper up to flop on his stomach. He clicks the pen a few times and sinks back into messy Hurston analyses. He crosses out every other adverb he finds to the gentle tide of Liam and Niall talking in the kitchen. They’re talking the latest football scores. Short of pop punk, the best background noise.

It’s a good day.

He’s just finishing up with the last essay when something freezing drips down the back of his neck.

“Fucking hell!” he jolts up from the couch in a mess of flying papers.

A loud cackle explodes behind him.

 _Louis_.

Zayn turns to glare, even as he’s swiping at the water on his nape.

Louis is curled against the back of the couch, slushy in hand, decked in a denim jacket over a strange woven sweater and black jeans. Alright, cold front in the third week of September it is, but this is becoming ridiculous.

“I hope you melt,” Zayn mutters darkly.

Licking his lips, Louis winks back at him, “Thinking ‘bout oral cleanup so early in the day, Zayno?”

Zayn rolls his tongue for a second, helpless against imagining it. Louis and him are good in bed. And in a car and in a van and a bathroom and once, memorably, Zilker Park behind a sparse line of bushes. There’s something Zayn likes about the push, the way Louis can jump from at ease and easy to bold and on a roll.

But, Zayn can do that too.

He pulls his hand away from the back of his neck to lean it on the couch back next to Louis. He balances on a knee as he crowds into Louis’ space smoothly, lets his eyes go hot and sharp.

Louis watches him, a smirk curling his lips slowly.

“Are you?” Zayn asks, quiet, careful.

Louis’ eyes flicker, more blue than usual today, bright and eager.

Something twists strong, hot, in his stomach. He leans forward more, puts their faces close enough Louis’ breathing almost tickles his scruff.

“No,” Louis says.

“No?”

“Not at all.”

Zayn eyes the line of Louis’ jaw, familiar and still so new.

“Still no?”

“Nuhuh,” Louis grins and tilts his head. It lets Zayn know it’s okay to nudge closer, to press his lips to Louis’ jaw line and marvel for a second before leaning against the couch more and nosing into his ridiculous jacket. Being with someone who’s demisensual isn’t any different than not, Zayn thinks. S’all negotiation and understanding. Maybe waiting a beat longer than he would otherwise.

Louis sways them back and forth and Zayn knows he’s not doing it intentionally. Staying still is hard for someone who counts minutes like orchestral movements. Louis leans his head on Zayn’s.

“Missed you,” he says, soft and vulnerable.

Zayn clenches his eyes tight.

It’s only been a few days since they’ve seen each other. Only been a month since Louis moved in. This is the first time they’ve really noticed Louis’ regular trips out to New Orleans to check in on Lottie. It’s not the first time Zayn’s realized just how much Louis cares about people.

“Missed you too, Lou,” he says.

Louis sighs out, quietly.

They sway for a moment, just feeling.

The noise in the kitchen rises, Niall’s usual laughter even louder and gigglier. Liam’s own sounds like hiccups of joy. Zayn grins.

Ridiculous.

He loves living with his best friends. He loves that their friendship is so ridiculous and bright and uniquely them. He loves that they’re all comfortable enough to hug and kiss and curl up together on their couch and that they have traditions like swirls of color and zest in the routine of monotonous college life.

Louis lifts his head and Zayn can feel him practically scenting the air.

He laughs and bites at his sweater.

“C’mon then,” Zayn slides backwards off the couch, “I know when I’m second best.”

They’re good as friends and good as friends who have sex, but they’re not LouisandNiall good.

Louis reaches for his arm to pinch, so Zayn thumps his wrist bone. Inhaling sharply, Louis catches Zayn’s eyes as he leans forward again and pinches sharp at Zayn’s forearm. The sting tingles almost, rushes like good espresso.

Then Louis grins, “Don’t be a moist falafel.”

“Nooo,” Zayn laughs. “Stop.”

Louis starts off for the kitchen. “Moist, moist, moist. You guyses are too easy.” He bounces a bit each time he says it.

“It wasn’t funny the third time.”

“Yes, it was,” Louis says, unbothered.

They walk in to find Liam digging his fingers into Niall’s hips, both of them curled against the far counters, dinner ingredients haphazard and half opened on the tops. Liam’s laughing too, the sound drowned out by Niall’s hysteria.

“Ooh,” Louis crows, “My favorite.”

He could be talking about the tickling, Zayn thinks as he side steps towards the pantry for gummy bears, but he could also be talking about Niall in general.

“Noooo,” Niall whines, hiccupping.

“Yesss,” Liam and Louis say.

Zayn digs out his gummy stash from behind Liam’s clif bars and kicks the stubborn pantry door closed.

Louis is watching Liam still curled around Niall, with a smile so enamored, Zayn whispers, “Be careful, your face’ll stick like that,” to him.

Louis continues smiling, “I have no notion to what you’re referring.” He plonks his slushie down on the table and then steals Niall away by pinching Liam’s nipple so hard he yelps. They kiss as Niall’s laughing anew, snapping into each other easily, like magnets brought close. Louis’ hands grip tight into Niall’s shirt.

 _Uhuh_.

Zayn eats the yellow gummies first.

“Yuck,” Liam says.

Zayn hands off the bag for a second, eyeing Liam to make sure he knows what’s not on offer, as he heads over to the sink.

“No reds, got it.” Liam pops an orange into his mouth.

“Good boy,” Zayn says casually, to watch Liam flush out of the corner of his eyes. They’re not partners or anything, but Zayn enjoys the underlying element of d/s in their friendship. A lot.

He turns on the water for a second and watches Louis push Niall back against the counter, their kisses syrupy slow and sprinkled with small whispers. Niall is the only one of them Louis will kiss at all, let alone kiss like a softness made tactile.

“He gets it, is all,” Louis had said once, curled up in bed with Zayn after some pretty top notch handies.

Zayn hadn’t asked _gets what?_ because it was pretty obvious he wouldn’t really have gotten the answer, if Louis could even word it. It’s wasn’t his thing to understand.

Now, Niall holds Louis’ face carefully, kisses precise and focused, shallow like a period romance.

Awful.

Zayn turns the nozzle spray on them idly.

Louis screeches and Niall yelps.

Wow. They can jump really high.

“Fucking Christ, Zayn!” Louis glares at his sopping jacket and then back at Zayn, but his eyes are bright.

Liam chokes a “Ha!”

Niall dissolves into laughter again and Zayn’s chest goes soppy and strange. He pushes it down and laughs loudly back. He wonders briefly why he feels this smug and satisfied. Wonders why he wants so badly to pull Niall against himself, before he pushes it away.

“Oops,” He says, brightly.

Dinner is a sad excuse for a casserole because they’ve all collectively been arguing about who’s turn it is to go shopping.

Everyone is a bit too talkative that night, happy to have Louis back and Louis happy to be back. It’s his turn to do dishes and they all linger a bit, settling back in. Ignoring the space where a bunch of curls should be, where a loud horse laugh should tumble in, feels harder than usual.

They should all be home.

He skypes Harry, afterward, phone wobbly on his chest as he lays down in bed.

“Hey, babes,” he says, as Harry comes into view.

Ze’s in the middle of dressing, phone balanced haphazardly on the dresser.

“Hey, hey.”

“Out again?”

“Mmmmm,” Harry drawls.

Zayn rolls his eyes and tucks the blanket around his feet better.

“How’d the showing go?” Harry’s been talking about it near constantly, the workspace, the gallery calls, the contacts ze needs to impress. Zayn’s not worried really, ze’s a natural with people – no matter their inclination towards or against zir. Too charming, by half. But he does want it to go someplace, wants people to see how much Harry cares, even if ze is political and polite about it.

Harry tilts zir head. Bobby pins stick out of zir mouth. The camera cuts off the edge of zir waist, but Zayn can see the braided belt, the way zir skinnies cut into zir lovehandles. He smiles.

“Good,” Harry says eventually, still picking at zir hair with pins.

“But?” Zayn prompts.

“It’s like, people get it, but they don’t wanna engage with it?”

“Ah.” Frustrating. “Gonna go on a rampage about it?”

Harry sticks a pin in and drops the rest on the dresser, zir hand looking strangely giant for a moment. “Maybe. Iunno.”

“I think you can, if you need to.” Not that Harry needs his permission to get mad at cis people for being unwilling to address the actual themes of Harry’s art.

“I think I need these people to renew my internship application for next sem.” Harry turns around to dig through a pile of clothes on the ground.

Zayn spots a t-shirt he knows they argued just last week about Harry taking. “Mhm!” he hums loudly.

Harry freezes and then squirrels the pile away behind the bed, leaving a trail of socks.

“I fucking knew it,” Zayn says, kicking his feet.

“You know nothing!” Harry shouts, “Nothing!”

“Thief!”

Harry blows a raspberry at him and tugs on a shirt with frills.

“Good god,” Zayn says, properly distracted.

“It’s lovely,” Harry sniffs.

“Okay,” Zayn lets it go, some battles aren’t worth it. “So you’re off to shmooze with the art elite, make some pointed comments with a smile?” Zayn does love when Harry gets intense and cutting and unavoidably polite.

“Yes,” Harry leans over to grin into the camera, giving Zayn a nice view down zir shirtfront. Harry’s phone buzzes then, shaking the call and making Harry frown over at the bedside clock. It’s a whale, with the phrase ‘a whale of a time!’ blocked above it. It’s ridiculous and awful and Harry will surely bring it back and put it on their bedside eventually.

Zayn looks forward to it.

Harry cusses loudly and Zayn watches zir begin a flurry of item collecting. Ze picks up a scarf and wraps it furiously around an ocean of curls and comes back around to bend over and faceplant into the dresser top.

“You late?” Zayn stifles a laugh.

Harry sighs, face a blur smushed against the phone, “I’m late.”

“Love you,” Zayn says rubbing his finger against the bumps of his phone case and wishing it was the line of Harry’s cheek.

“Love you, too, Zaynie. Night.”

“Night.”

And Harry’s off to do more industry-artsy things that Zayn doesn’t quite understand, but smiles about anyway.

Zayn curls himself into his pillows and pulls out his worn copy of _nejma_. The words float up around him like the sun gone to the west, the end of the journey home, the end of a day run too long.

He’s studying Lit and he can feel it in his bones like ink gone iron, built up layer by layer over too many 500 word deadlines. He can feel it in the way he goes breathless seeing Harry stretch out on the couch with _Time Traveler’s Wife_ , 17 chapters in, and crying. The way Liam ducks his head a little when he asks for recommendations, and then leans over the books Zayn hands him, so intensely, finger moving across the page and lips mouthing words. The way that students, looking like fresh picked apples knock nervously on his door, always starting with an ‘uhm’, but leaving calm and settled.

He argues with his advisor in their meeting that Tuesday, “I think it has potential.”

“Zayn,” Layan sighs, fixing the line of her hijab, “it’s not that it doesn’t have potential. It’s whether it has enough secondary material to support the potential.”

Zayn runs his finger along the edge of his portfolio and doesn’t answer. The clock in the corner counts the seconds like an excited 1st grader.

It _does_ have potential.

Layan sighs again and then taps the desk, “Bring me 7 sources and I’ll sign off on it.”

Zayn grins cheekily.

She glares at him, cheek twitching with a smile, “They better be good, Malik. I’m gonna be hypercritical like hell.”

Zayn slips his portfolio into his bag and pushes back the chair, “Of course,” he says, easily. “See you Friday. Oh, and the exams are in Asam’s inbox.”

Layan makes a put upon sound and the blaring sound of Spice Girls follows him out of the room.

He laughs as he waves to Asam, who’s putting in their earphones with an eyeroll. He likes working with both of them. They’re more real than the other staff, less like the old wrinkled white paper they all study, and more like characters come to life.

Zayn hums as he heads back home. The roads are nice and uncrowded at 2.30, that golden in-between time, and it’s enchilada night.

He walks into the living room to a messy pile of boys in the center of the carpet.

“Oho,” he steps over Louis’ legs from where he’s leaning back against Niall, who’s full out laying on Liam, “Anything fun happenin’?”

“Complaining our utmost about academia,” Louis says, around a mouthful cheetos. His hand is orange up to his wrist.

“Niiiiice,” Zayn does an air high-five and settles on the couch. Then yelps and digs out his phone from his pocket. Nearly 3. Almost time for Haz’s daily lunch snaps. Ze’s a fucking dork. A kale loving dork. Zayn smiles.

“I just think they should appreciate my honesty,” Niall continues.

“Too right they should, Neil.”

“Niall’s advisor meeting,” Liam explains to Zayn, looking fairly content being smushed.

“Ah. You switching still?”

Niall sighs heavily, still nearly drowned out by Louis’ munching.

“Same,” Zayn says.

Zayn remembers his switch from English to Lit to Fine Art back to Lit again. This last time, he legitimately thought his advisor was gonna cry. Niall’s been pretty consistent though. Communications all the way up until a few months ago when the usual frowns had become a little more sour. He’d put the meeting on all their calendars with a quiet, “Just thinking, yunno.”

They’d cuddled him a bit.

“What’d you tell em?” Zayn asks.

“I hate it,” Niall shrugs like, _what was I supposed to say_.

Liam makes a breathy sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. Louis and Zayn don’t bother with the sigh.

Niall grins up at them for a second, then drops his face into Liam’s stomach.

“Ooof,” Liam pushes at Niall’s head.

“Noooo,” Niall whines.

“I have class.”

“So do I,” Louis says, throwing up another cheeto and catching it easily in his mouth, “Skippo, Payno.”

“It’s a science req,” Liam tries to wriggle out from under Niall.

“Don’t prove his point,” Zayn says to Liam, leaning across the coffee table to steal the red bull on the table. Dibs just means getting to it first, really.

Liam makes a quiet, sad sound and Zayn’s stomach clenches for knowing what Liam’s sad sounds sound like. He looks over to see Liam’s chin ducked, one hand tangled in Niall’s hair, holding him close now. Liam’s hoarse when he continues, “I failed last sem, though.”

Zayn reaches for him at the same time Louis and Niall do.

College is hard.

College is hard in the same way that walking up an uneven set of stairs is or swimming a lap in a lake with overgrown kelp or baking an upside down cake with only one cup of flour is. Cycles and cycles of work and monotonous, unequipped attention needed. It’s never, ever gonna be fair or right that college is even harder for Liam, who tries so, so hard at every single cycle, who always searches for the good in every go around. Liam, whose unwavering grilled cheese and snuggle support is half the reason Zayn makes it through his own godawful exam weeks.

College doesn’t make sense.

Niall starts singing _Stand By Me_ softly and they curl tight around Liam to hum all the way through it.

Liam clings and they let him.

Zayn worms his way under Niall’s side to tuck his hand behind Liam’s head. His mohawk has gotten a little scruffy, the shave feathering out against Zayn’s hands. Liam mumbles something nonsensical and Louis shushes him a bit.

Something about Liam like this, seeming so small curled under them, twinges something in Zayn’s muscles, makes him wish he could tuck Liam into his arms and tell the rest of the world to fuck off, fuck off, _fuck off_ from him.

It reminds him of seeing him the first time, the sad slump of his shoulders and the twist of his fingers in his grey sweater. Winter, and Harry had turned zir head to follow Zayn’s glance. Had looked for a long moment and then kissed Zayn’s cheek and gotten up. Pulled Liam to them, gently, intently.

He misses Harry. Misses the three of them the way the three of them are. Like nothing Zayn’s ever had before this.

Zayn presses a kiss to the side of Liam’s head.

Niall makes a quiet sad sound.

Ah. Time for Liam to go, then.

“Love,” Louis says, low, “time to go.”

Liam sniffs a little bit, shifting like he’s trying to lean into all of them at once for a moment. Then he nods against the scritching of Zayn’s fingers.

“Kay.”

“You want us to go and throw apples at the prof?” Louis says, intentionally nonchalant.

Zayn leans his head against the soft of Louis’ arm for a second.

“No,” Liam says, a bit livelier, “but thank you.”

“Course,” Niall says. There’s a smacking sound and Liam sniffs a giggle.

“We’ll be here, when you get back, yeah?” Zayn whispers against the curve of Liam’s cheek.

Liam kisses the top of his ear like a butterfly’s goodbye.

Mumbling goodbyes, everyone untangles reluctantly. Liam gathers his backpack and ball cap, and with a soft reminder from Louis, “Practice, today, Payno,” his cleats and shorts. Zayn leans his head against Niall’s and watches the set of Liam’s shoulders as he goes out the front door with a _bye-ya_.

“Bye,” they chorus as the lock clicks.

They lay on the floor for a couple of minutes, quiet. When Liam goes, he takes something with him, always.

“So,” Zayn starts eventually, and clears his throat, “what are you gonna do?”

Niall makes a soft sound, “Dunno, really. Just, not this.”

“Totally fine,” Louis says, firm.

“Yeah, but.”

But Niall’s always known his own direction. Niall’s own sense of true north has guided Zayn through forests before. It’s scary, silly, how the simplest of things that used to be certainties can still change. Like fifth grade, when Maria Chang moved away and left Zayn without a best friend in crowded, pencil graffiti’d walls.

He wishes 22 meant knowing better.

Louis’ gone back to munching Cheetos, not bothering to sit up to eat. Orange flecks float to the carpet. Zayn would say something, but it’s Liam’s week to vacuum.

“So,” he crunches, “What do you want, Nialler?”

“I don’t wanna talk about people like they're 20 second news bits,” Niall says, wearing grumpy like it’s his favorite leather jacket. 

Zayn smiles. “I never thought you would’ve.”

Niall huffs and starts braiding a section of Louis’ hair, Louis steadily sitting up to allow him access. The plaits are tiny and tidy in a way that none of the rest of them, who grew up with siblings that actually wore plaits, can manage. Zayn hands Niall a daisy bud from the miscellaneous bowl on the coffee table to weave in at the bottom. Louis kisses Zayn’s shoulder, grinning.

Niall’s hands pull Louis closer. They turn into each other easily, kisses turning intense and smooth.

Zayn loves watching Niall with Louis. Loves watching Louis with Niall. Loves watching the way they play with each other, the way they echo each other loud and clear but still soft and gentle.

He remembers the feeling of Niall crawling onto the couch with him, 5 months ago, the morning after that night at Paul’s. He’d been grumbling about the early hour as Niall had slid in the room like he was following the sun.

“Afternoon, actually,” Niall corrects, “you missed brekkie.”

“Bah,” Zayn tells the cushion.

Niall nudges under his chin, tucks their bodies together, humming loudly. Zayn sighs quietly at the feeling of them aligning. There’s something very underrated about the basic familiarity of someone’s body, Zayn thinks. How you can simply _know_ the curve of their shoulder or the dig of their favorite steak shaped belt buckle. Or their overactive molecular structure.

“You’re vibrating,” Zayn drags a sleepy hand across Niall’s shoulder and arm. It’s nearly bouncing up and down, jostling them both like a happy boat. Niall’s lucky Zayn doesn’t get lovesick, really, or he’d have to pitch him overboard.

There’s a vague affirmative noise from somewhere under his chin.

Zayn can’t even be too bothered by Niall coming in and dipping himself into the pools of the couch. Niall’s ripples are always warm and worthwhile.

A mumble tickles against his neck.

Zayn giggles and squirms a bit, “Stooop.”

Niall giggles back against him, “Noooo.”

They exchange lazy knee bumps and half-tickles. The living room is warm, crisp in that new day way, before realizations have overcooked the corners or gotten to the good squishy middle bits. Morning it may not be, but it’s still good. Zayn would argue, even better for not being some dreaded time like Harry O’Clock or Liam Alarm. He tells Niall this by nosing his ear a bit.

He gets a kiss to his collar in return.

“I’ve got a secret,” Niall says, quietly.

Meaning something new, soon to be shared with all of them.

“Yeah?”

Niall nods, rubbing against Zayn’s scruff.

“Gonna share, bub?”

“Louis,” Niall says, like that explains it all.

Zayn lets the word sit between them a moment, tests the weight of it on his tongue silently and thinks maybe it does. He smiles too big into Niall’s hair.

“ _Babe_.”

“I know,” Niall says, breathless and beautiful.

Zayn knows then that Niall’s in love.

Louis moves in with Niall a month later. And by August, they’re all living together.

Sometimes Zayn thinks, of course, _of course_. Sometimes he thinks, of course that would be too easy. Because the first Thursday in September, Niall makes Zayn strawberry waffles for breakfast and Zayn looks at the familiar line of Niall’s impossibly straight teeth, bright and showy in their kitchen, and thinks _please_ , thinks _forever_. The first Thursday in September, something settles on Zayn’s shoulder and refuses to leave.

He shrugs it off, patches over it for the beginning of semester, for Niall’s birthday, to try and settle into the month, to watch Niall over his birthday cake, a firecracker the focus of the entire world, blowing out lesser candles. He pushes it away in the middle of the night when his bed is empty and the sky is crawling into his window, but -

Now he’s here, watching Niall and Louis settling each other, their touches like skin made into touchstones. He’s here and he’s so happy. But he’s so confused.

Niall laughs into the curve of Louis’ neck and it’s not that Zayn wants to be in between or be one of them, but he wants something, wants that tinge of _something._

That’s scary too.

In his darker, more aware moments, he wonders if it would have changed anything if he had gone to that breakfast. If he could have waylaid the place in Niall’s heart that Louis slid into like a home run.

In his lighter, more confused moments, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what the fuck is happening to him.

Zayn gets up quietly and leaves them there, closes the door of his bedroom quietly and leans his head against it for a long time.

His proposal needs work and Safaa asked him to call after her dance practice and he meant to text Danny back about some stupid video he sent of him and Ant doing an installation in that Bay studio he can never remember the name of and he needs to read at least 4 articles and then he’s got to go over discussion questions for his T.A. seminar on Monday.

“Sleep,” he reminds himself.

If he has time.

The week is a blur of trying to stay on top of everything. The air feels crisp and ready for death which Zayn overly sympathizes with for an hour while he’s supposed to be grading papers. He doesn’t avoid the boys or anything, but he doesn’t seek them out either, passes by Niall on the 24th as he’s on his way to the mosque.

“Eid Mubarak,” Niall says.

Zayn smiles back at him, “Eid Mubarak.”

“We good for tonight still?”

“Mhm,” Zayn hums, hip checks Niall a bit.

He misses home, always like a low key thrumming in his bones, but particularly now, on Eid.

Misses the assembly line of samosas and the rolling laughter tucked inside the corners of his parents house, all the Aunties together and loud in shalwar kameez, packing presents and food to give away, misses Urdu smooth and curling around their jokes and joy, misses the way Safaa swings their hands together on the way to prayers, looking bright and bold and proud, misses looking around and feeling strong and sturdy and _belonging_ , but, this isn’t terrible either.

Liam always grabs the lamb because it’s on his way from work and Niall turns over the kitchen easily to Zayn’s hands. Louis’ seemed good about it, nose pressed to his phone screen on youtube spirals for biryani.

They sit together outdoors and Zayn prays and they work their way through the Bollywood section of the Netflix queue. Harry texts him a bit, _Eid Mubarak_ , _I hate this gallery owner_ , _How was the gift haul for the kiddies_ and _Love your smile_.

It’s nice, but it’s not home.

He spends a long time on the phone to back home, curled in his bed, just listening. Doniya keeps a running commentary, pulls a pocket of the moment for him to tuck into.  

On Friday, he does some back sourcing for a bit, which leads to a vague literary meltdown where Layan has to assign two more books to LIT 4332, which means Zayn has to read two more books. Which means he spends enough time over the weekend in the school café, one of the baristas offers him a sympathetic look like he just got dumped.

He goes home after that, wallows a bit in his bad temper.

Harry flies back in on a Monday.

Theoretically, Zayn could go get zir – but airports are gross and Austin traffic on a Monday afternoon reminds him of the time he accidentally stapled his finger to a bit of poster board.

“Can’t,” Zayn says, when Niall asks. He’s in the doorway, ballcap lopsided from Liam messing with it before he jumped off for practice.

“No?”

“Nope.”

“You know,” Niall leans his hip against the door jam and Zayn’s eyes flicker towards it before he jerks them back to the t.v.

His stomach twists strangely.

“What,” he says, instead.

A buzzing sounds loudly, Niall’s phone going off. He brings it up and clips out a message without seeming to use mortal fingers to type it out.

“You know,” he says as he brings it down again, “Can’t never could.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Haz won’t die because I’m not at the airport.” He kicks his foot. Why’d Harry have to come in on a Monday afternoon, anyway. Ze usually flies back on a Saturday, and then everyone goes out that night and then Harry and him get to have a lazy, messy Sunday in bed.

Keys clink from right beside him. He barely manages not to jump.

Niall stares down at him, grinning like he knows.

“Yes, Niall?” he asks, sickly sweet.

Niall leans in and kisses his temple. As he pulls back, he whispers, “I know you know to take Pleasant Valley to 7th to hook onto 71.”

Zayn tilts his head to kiss Niall’s temple back, “I know you know better than me.”

Laughing a bit, Niall sighs.

Zayn’s not worried, Niall’ll do it. ABIA is his favorite airport and Niall’s a sucker for airport hugs. Also Texans have some strange love of traffic pain, it’s almost like Niall thrives in the driver’s seat, cussing at other people, AC set to arctic chill. Unlike Zayn though, Niall gets out of the car and it all fades away and he’s a polite member of society again.

There’s another loud sigh as Niall laces up his sneakers.

“Buh-bye,” Zayn waves.

“One day,” Niall tugs on the tongue of his shoe, “You two are gonna have to learn how to not be childish, because I won’t be around to be your kindergartener-go-between.”

Childishly, Zayn flicks on the TV sound. Explosions start echoing in the room.

Niall twists the front door lock loudly, “If you don’t like zir coming back on a Monday, just fucking say it, huh.” He leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Zayn presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes until stars burst along the black. He needs to figure this out, needs to understand what the fuck he’s feeling. Needs Niall to not be able to read him so good.

And maybe it’s childish, Zayn thinks as he flicks through DVR’d football games, but Saturdays is what he and Harry had agreed on. He’s not sure why it has to change now.

He sighs and settles on an old episode of Mythbusters.

The sound echoes strangely in the empty house and Zayn curls further into the raggedy quilt he’s stolen. It smells like all of them, feels like home.

Liam tumbles home first, sweaty and looking worn from practice. Zayn shoves over on the couch to let him curl close and damp after his shower. Fingers rubbing slow circles over his tense shoulders.

Liam mumbles something grumpy.

“Same,” Zayn says.

They stay like that until Niall and Harry bang in some time later. Zayn’s been drifting and he can tell Liam has been too, by the way he jerks at the door slamming open.

“Hey babe,” Zayn says.

“Hey Ha –” Liam gets out before ze launches zirself at them.

It’s a mess of kisses and limbs then, Harry peppering Zayn’s face and Liam laughing and then ze getting sidetracked and peppering Liam’s face. Zayn laughs then and breathes in the smell of Harry, cinnamon perfume, this time, like autumn’s finally rolled on in. He presses his face to zir neck and kisses a bit, just because it’s there.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Harry kisses.

Distantly, Niall is laughing at them and then his phone is ringing and he’s walking off into the kitchen. Next to his face, Liam and Harry are getting sidetracked kissing, progressing steadily into making out. Zayn feels that same rush he always does when he sees Harry kiss someone, when he sees Harry and Liam do anything together.

He rubs his thumb along the line of Harry’s jaw, lets it skim over their joined lips before following along to the line of Liam’s jaw. They groan for him, breaking apart slickly only to come back together, rougher, Liam biting at Harry’s bottom lip.

“Lovely,” he whispers.

He leans his head on Harry’s shoulder and knows that Liam will be with them tonight. It’s good, great even and Zayn’s already planning how he can lead both of them through it, gauging how deep they’ll feel like going from the way their limbs cling.

But it’s also a little bittersweet under Zayn’s tongue. He hasn’t had Harry back in weeks.

Mondays.

He sighs against Harry’s skin.

Louis gets home late, so they delay dinner – Harry and Niall arguing about the best honey mustard to have with chicken burgers – until he gets in about 9. By that time, Harry has flitted from one of them to another, cornered Zayn in the hallway by the bathroom and let him basically maul zir hips and neck with his hands and teeth – so he’s feeling a little more magnanimous.  

Louis is prickly too, stressed from a day spent with too-happy 6 year olds.

“Cretins,” Louis hisses, as he crowds up against Zayn on the floor in front of the couch. He kicks Harry’s shin to make zir put zir hands in his hair.

But he also pulls out his phone, “Look, Alli made me a noodle sculpture of a platypus. Then,” he says proudly, “threw it at DeAndre’s head.”

Zayn laughs and lets Louis rile them all up, bouncing back and forth between annoyance and nipple twisting joy. It helps, to have Louis around now, lets Zayn feel like he can let someone else rock the boat and bite at people. They have a light condiment war in the garden and Tamar and Joy from next door keep score.

Harry takes Zayn’s hand and refuses to let go.

He’s calm when he goes to bed, is glad for it, because he knows fucking better than to dom upset. He directs Harry and Liam firmly, pushes Harry down onto Liam’s cock and keeps them both still, makes them wait for instructions.

“Please, Z,” Liam pulls at his wrists, done up with a nice bow around the bedposts.

“Thank you,” Harry breathes out, knowing better.

Zayn bites over the bruises forming on Harry’s neck as a reward, pressed against zir back. Ze arches up against him and he pinches zir arm, straining propped up around Liam’s chest. “Be good.”

He pushes Harry down onto Liam and keeps them pinned together, makes the night slow and deep and so, so good.

They’re fumbly after, noodles that Zayn coddles and kisses and sets with water bottles against the pillows. Zayn brings in Liam’s batman blanket from his room, tiptoeing past the music going in Niall’s room, a tinge of hoping they weren’t too loud. Harry curls against the front of him, when he gets back, babbles _I missed yous_ and Zayn holds on tight, whispers _we missed you too_ , for Liam and him and for Louis and Niall.

He goes to sleep easily.

He wakes up less easily to Liam nudging him out of bed for brekkie.

 _Ugh_. Mornings.

He stumbles into the dining room, everything feeling blurry at the edges. He likes Liam’s days to make breakfast, likes the way he tries to experiment. Today it’s some kind of quiche done with a lot of cheese. It’s good, he just wishes it wasn’t in the morning.

Zayn eats with his chin against his coffee cup, vaguely watching the way Harry keeps squirming in zir chair and the way Liam’s limbs still look like his muscles have gone elastic. Louis watches him watching and not-so-discretely high-fives him.

“Oh honestly,” Niall scoffs, glancing up from his phone as it buzzes endlessly.

Harry presses a chaste kiss to Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn wanders through his classes and meetings that day with a serene smile on his face. A couple of freshmen give him strange looks and he smiles wider. They scamper off.

That night, him and Harry go out, just the two of them, because Harry’s only got an advisor meeting at 4 tomorrow and Zayn’s class can afford being missed. Louis eyebrow waggles them out the door and Zayn sticks his tongue into his cheek in return.

He’s still laughing a bit when they get to Elysium. There’s a local band playing tonight, because there always is in Austin, but he doesn’t catch their name, too caught up in the way Harry’s hips move and the way Harry’s nails are just long enough to catch against the back of Zayn’s neck when ze pulls him close.

The lights are a furious red tonight, almost thick enough to drown in. The floor sinks and they follow it, down, down, down.

He splays his hand on Harry’s lower back and lets Harry hand him shot after shot. Harry kisses the taste of alcohol out of his mouth and then they start again.

“Gonna keep up tonight, San Fran?” Harry shouts in his ear.

“Gonna shut up tonight, L.A.?” he shouts back, twists his hand under Harry’s incredibly sheer shirt. Ze’s got pasties on, four little butterflies because Zayn had tapped his fingers against the extras laying on the bed and raised an eyebrow at the two Harry already had on. Harry had cackled and complied and Zayn had run his hand all the way along zir spine like a promise.

“Mmm,” Harry hums, with the bass of the song, “Make me.”

Zayn pulls Harry’s chin up and makes zir.

Harry makes a sound that gets lost in the sea of bodies around them.

They start the shots cycle over again, until the only thing Zayn can focus on is the percussion in his feet and the rolling of Harry’s hips in his hands.

Ubering home is a challenge.

Zayn hangs onto Harry’s hand like it’ll stop the world from rowboating away and ze mutters comments about the state of the other people milling about, like ze’s got any room to talk. Harry slathers his neck in saliva when he mentions it. Their driver pops bubblegum as they watch Harry and Zayn tumble in. By the time they’re up to 30th though, the driver is laughing at something Harry’s said, grinning when Zayn calls zir an idiot.

They pay and get out with a few genuine “Have a good one, man”s and Zayn smiles smug against Harry’s hair.

Part of the thrill of them partying is always in the way people get a thrill out of them partying. They’re gravitational.

“We’re so good, baby,” he slurs against Harry’s ear.

Harry rubs against him, making soft, cut-off sounds.

“Shhhh,” he says, too loudly, as he finally gets open the door and they stumble in, nearly taking the hall-stand out.

Harry giggles.

They stumble into their bedroom and flop down on the bed.

Zayn lands on Harry’s hair and ze hisses, shoving at his arm.

“Fucker!”

Zayn laughs hysterically and presses his face into Harry’s stomach. Harry paws clumsily at his hair and he hums.

“Good feel,” he mutters.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifting until there’s a distinct hacking sound and the too-loud flush of a toilet.

Harry crawls back into bed a few minutes, maybe a lot of minutes later. Zayn is staring at the ceiling and it doesn’t have the time on it. Ze smells distinctively sharp and it makes Zayn’s stomach roll in kind.

Zayn wrinkles his nose and kicks weakly at Harry. “Gross. No.”

Like he’s any better, smelling of the cigs they had after the club, and the vodka before that and whatever blue thing was before that.

Sure enough, Harry says hoarsely, “You’re not any better, bo...”

Zayn frowns at the ceiling, “I’m not Bo.”

There’s a wiggle beside him, but turning his head feels like it might be a really bad idea.

“Bo…zo.” Harry finishes.

Zayn closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. It doesn’t make it better. “Take. It back.”

“Take it to the bathroom,” Harry says, muffled like ze’s head is under the covers.

“No,” Zayn says, because words feel slippery and his stomach has started a continuous conga that probably means Harry is right and Zayn hates when Harry is right. “Fuck.”

“Ha.”

“Fuck,” he says again.

His stomach twists dangerously, that edge of truly too much threatening to eat his throat the longer he stays there.

Harry snores beside him, already out.

“Fucking shitting fuck,” he whispers, barely a breath.

His bathroom journey is even less graceful than Harry’s, if that’s possible. He catches the edge of the doorframe with his shoulder and the pain of it makes him gag, and then he’s clutching the toilet, off balance because he’s gagging for another reason.

He stays there too long.

He hates the toilet.

He loves the toilet.

“You are my only friend,” he tells it, around the third round.

“But you’re not very nice,” he tells it, around the time he hits his head on the tank trying to stand up and has to immediately drop back down for round five.

He brushes his teeth messily, feeling like forever wouldn’t be enough to feel clean and steadies himself against the wall back down to the room. Closing the door too loudly, he winces and then grits his teeth as his head complains about wincing.

He grabs two waters from the mess on the dresser and falls heavily on the bed.

“Guh,” Harry grumbles.

“Water,” Zayn elbows zir side.

“Nngh.”

“Water,” Zayn demands and drops the bottle on zir.

The morning is going to be hell enough without making it worse. Harry is a grumpy shit hungover. They’re well matched, really.

He fumbles open his own water and drinks it half propped up, half swaying. It spills messily.

Harry is pawing sluggishly at zir bottle as Zayn finishes all he can manage of his. He takes pity and grabs it to twist open, spilling little enough it feels like an accomplishment. Harry gulps sloppily, leaning heavily against Zayn. He kisses zir head gently and drops the crumpled bottle off the side of the bed when ze finishes.

Harry clings to him and he resigns himself to waking up in pain for various reasons.

The sun is in a bad mood the next day too, blaring down on Zayn at whatever time his bladder decides it is not waiting a second longer. Him and Harry are into some out-there stuff but watersports really isn’t it. So, Zayn squints his eyes angrily at the world and rolls very, very carefully out of bed.

He manages the bathroom through a series of cusses and deep breathing routines. He also vows never to tell Liam and Harry that their routines actually work.

It’s not the worst he’s felt, but it’s not great either.

Niall gives him an indecipherable look as he stumbles into the morning – afternoon, whatever – sun of the kitchen, but magically plonks a plate of waffles down on the table.

Zayn croaks a thank you. 

“Uhuh,” Niall says and goes back to cleaning the kitchen counter. He can’t help feeling like Niall knows something he doesn’t. But he also feels mildly like death and it sounds like too much effort to worm it out of Niall.

Niall’s a rock anyway.

Quietly, Zayn takes his plate back down into their room and struggles to slide open the window before crawling back into bed. He eats steadily, knowing he’ll regret it if he doesn’t, alternating with sips of water. He pops two Advil at the end and congratulates himself for managing the whole bit, “Yayyy.”

Zayn checks his email later, bored from being unable to fall asleep, but too gross to do anything of value, curled pathetically with a snoring Harry and a dulled headache.

There’s two from research groups, one from his advisor about a funny goat video, and - one from his professor, requesting to meet personally, later in the week, concerning his absence this morning.

He stares at it for a moment, trying to make it make sense, and then back tracks into his file folders clumsily, looking for the course syllabus. He tracks his thumb over the awful pdf, thinking again that it’s fucked up accessibility rates lower than extra credit for participating in the professor’s personal research – and finally finds the calendar.

He thought it was just a reading day, boring, redundant talk about whatever shitty article they were doing this week. He was sure it was, it’s September, last Wednesday of September.

The calendar stares back at him: _Day 1 of Roundtable Presentations_.

He must make a sound because Harry mumbles against him.

Panic claws down Zayn’s spine.

“What wrong,” Harry manages, face smushed to Zayn’s chest.

Zayn drops his phone on Harry’s head, ignoring zir _OW_ to try and breathe in through his nose and not do another trip to Friend Toilet.

Fumbling with the phone, Harry pushes up on an elbow unsteadily and squints at the screen. Ze stares for a long moment and then places the phone gently down on Zayn’s neck.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

“Fuck,” Zayn agrees.

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

The day’s a bit shit after that.

Harry and the lads clear a wide berth after the second time someone mentions something innocuous to Zayn and he responds with a vicious, “Get fucked.”

Louis is the only one who seems unbothered, rolling his eyes and throwing his remaining pickle-chips at Zayn’s head.

Zayn very graciously gives him the finger and doesn’t throttle him.

Meanly, too meanly even for the asshole level he’s cruising at today, he thinks the reason Louis doesn’t give a shit is he already has too much experience with missing classes and messing up his college career. It’s not like he has to explain to expectant parents and uncles and aunts and grandparents that the reason he’s flunked a req is because he was barfing his life up.

He screams into a pillow for a short bit just to see if it helps.  

It doesn’t.

But at least it makes him weary enough to answer back to the email, say he’s available at 2PM tomorrow or 1 on Friday. He lays there for a while, blaring a sad Spotify playlist he knows both Harry and Liam can’t stand.

Eventually, there’s a knock on the door. Louis’ voice comes through loud and clear, “Dinner is served, if you’re done being a dickwad.”

Zayn wraps a fist around his anger and shoves up to open the door, “Maybe you should back the fuck off, before someone decides to make you.”

Louis looks at him, unimpressed.

It makes Zayn angrier.

“Fuck off.”

Louis leans against the door frame, relaxed-like.

Zayn breathes in sharply and tries to resist shoving him back. He’s close enough that Zayn can smell he must’ve helped with whatever dinner is, and that it has garlic.

They always do dinner together when all of them are able.

Zayn grits his teeth and focuses on the anger clouding up inside his ribs.

“Harry feels like shit,” Louis says, blandly, “and Niall feels like shit that Harry feels like shit and that you feel like shit.”

Zayn’s chest clenches. “So?”

“So maybe you shouldn’t fucking take out your anger on the people you love most when it’s not their fault you fucked up.”

“I didn’t fuck up, you shithead.”

“No?” Louis raises an eyebrow and it’s smooth and dangerous.

“No.” Zayn grips the door and resists slamming it.

“Did Harry or Niall or Liam fuck up?”

Zayn’s hand clenches around the door, “Who cares.”

Louis smiles and it isn’t nice. “I do.”

And Zayn, Zayn knows that. He knows Louis cares about them. He cares about them collectively in a way that Zayn can’t ever quite get a grip on, like it’s a fortress with smoothed walls 20 feet high. He knows it’s got to be taking something big and ugly for Louis to be here, to take Zayn’s volleys like Zayn isn’t an integral building block of that defensive wall.

Zayn takes a deep breath and Louis watches him quietly, mouth in a sad line. Zayn really doesn’t want to make Louis cry.

He doesn’t want to be an asshole to them. He just doesn’t know how to stop. Getting away from them is probably the best thing, for all of them.

“Think I shouldn’t.” he says, swallowing hard, “I’ll just go out for a sandwich or something.”

Louis’ face goes blank and unimpressed.

“What?”

“If you do that, it’ll make –“ Louis pauses, “them feel even worse.”

Zayn’s temper flares again, “So what, I can’t do anything right? No matter what, I’m the one fucking shit up?”

“No,” Louis snaps, “You can’t fucking do anything right apparently. Got your head too far up your own ass to be able to give a shit. Literally.”

“Wow,” Zayn drawls, spine feeling rigid and caked in electricity. “Witty.”

“Someone’s got to be, since you’ve made everyone else cry themselves out.”

The heat leaves Zayn’s body like it’s been sucked away. His skin goosebumps involuntarily. Louis wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.

“I –”

“You.” Louis agrees.

Zayn leans against the door.

Fighting with Louis is pointless because they’re both always looking to win but it’s never really a fight with a winner. No matter how it comes out, Zayn feels like shit. And yet, he can never seem to stop doing it.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Louis exhales shakily. Zayn watches his hands clench and release a few times.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

“I’ll come out.”

Louis nods a bit, jaw working hard. “If you –”

“I know, Lou,” Zayn says, and he does.

If he lashes out, Louis will step in again. And it’ll be harsher. More final.

“Fine.” Louis shoves his hands in his pocket and turns back down the hallway.

Zayn watches the line of his shoulders go.

He pulls away from the door slowly. His hand’s gone tense and strained. Opening and closing it a few times, he stares at the wall blankly, feeling acutely shitty. He’s still got a headache and his stomach isn’t happy and his heart feels all at once smashed and overlooked.

“Maybe you shouldn’t take your anger out on the people you love most,” Zayn repeats. 

Louis is a lot more emotionally literate than most people give him credit for, Zayn thinks. Then, he frowns and has a moment to wonder why Niall was included in the list of who feels like shit if not Liam and Louis were.

“Probably just ‘cause he’s more teary,” Zayn whispers.

Whatever, Zayn’s a shit, they’ve all put up with him incredibly today. He lets it go.

He sighs and leans his throbbing head against the wall. Then, he closes his eyes and makes his way down to dinner.

Niall looks at him with red eyes and a clear face and Harry looks at him with red eyes and a blotchy face and Zayn feels his eyes prickle even as his spine tightens and tries to rally his temper. He shoves it down and forces himself into his usual chair.

It’s silent in the kitchen. Some kind of meat and greens on the table and Liam in the bathroom and Louis with his arms crossed, leaning back in his own chair.

“Sorry,” Zayn says and it sounds too loud.

It’s not enough.

Harry sniffs and launches at his side. He catches zir like a reflex and curls his arms tight around zir. Niall is still watching him from the counter where he’s pouring drinks.

Zayn stares back, looks at the lines tight around Niall’s blue eyes, somehow made more aqua by the redness, the hand-tugged mess of the bottle blonde.

“Okay,” Niall says, like Zayn’s just said something about the weather. He turns back to finishing the drinks.

Ridiculously, Zayn’s eyes prickle.

 _You don’t have a right to feel sad_ , Zayn tells himself furiously. He blinks a lot and holds Harry tighter.

Liam toddles in, and smiles at Zayn gladly, easily. Zayn forces a smile in response.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Zayn whispers into Harry’s hair. He wishes he was brave enough to say it loud, wishes it didn’t feel like something in Niall’s shoulders will remember that he wasn’t brave enough.

His stomach hurts, but he eats dinner steadily, compliments the chef like Trisha is behind his shoulder.

Niall smiles at him and says, “Thank you.” Then he turns back to speaking with Louis and Liam about the latest player stats.

Zayn looks down and chews steadily; holds Harry’s hand too tight.

He doesn’t throw up after, and it feels like an accomplishment.

The next few days are like some sick game of ping-pong. Hit, Zayn has to talk to his professor, reassure him he was ill, he can catch up, just give him a chance. Hit, Zayn spends 3 hours in the weak morning sun working out the unhappy lines of tension in Harry’s body, post-run. Hit, Zayn runs into a block finding sources he knew he just had, where the fuck did they go. Hit, Liam tucks Zayn close on the couch and lets Zayn lean against his shoulder for all of a Lord of the Rings extended commentary. Hit, a wreck on Guadaloupe makes everyone in Austin an even worse driver. Hit, Niall leans over his shoulder as he’s doing dishes one evening and kisses the hinge of Zayn’s jaw.

“Okay,” Niall says, like Zayn has given a rounding, passionate speech.

He pulls away quick, goes back to the porch to keep tapping at his laptop.

Zayn sets down the plate he was scrubbing at. Then, he braces his hands against the edges of the sink and cries.

His eyes spill hot tears too fast and he chokes, tries to be quiet about the mess of it.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks and struggles to breathe.

Louis finds him there, with enough time passed that Zayn’s hands have dried and his eyes ache.

He looks up at the touch to his wrist.

“Love,” Louis says, quietly.

Zayn tips himself into Louis’ arms and lets Louis hold him together.

“Shh, shhh, shhhh,” Louis says and rubs his back.

He’s vaguely aware of Louis maneuvering them carefully, reaching around Zayn to turn off the water Zayn hadn’t realized was still on, Louis nearly tripping on the tile-carpet separator to the hallway as they go to the living room. Mostly, Zayn’s aware of the ragged sound of his own chest and the way Louis’ shirt feels in his clenched hands.

Louis sets them both on the beanbag, lets them curl tight together and sink in.

Zayn cries himself to hiccups.

Louis stays with him and doesn’t complain about getting his favorite Green Day tee wet and snotty. Louis really loves him a lot.

“You,” Zayn sniffs at some point, “coddle your students like this?”

“Yes,” Louis says, easily.

Zayn gives a wet laugh, “Okay.”

And it is, maybe. It is okay.

They’re okay.

Zayn didn’t break them, he realizes, with a silly burst of relief that night.

It’s S’mores And More in the backyard today and Zayn is rolling joints for them like normal and Niall is flipping burgers like normal and Harry is dancing with Liam like normal and Louis is cackling like normal and they’re okay.

He offers Niall the first hit and tucks the smile Niall gives him in return in his hand, holds onto it.

He dreams of clouds that night, of floating gently up, up and up until he finds a donkey floating next to him, eating a radish.

He wakes up laughing and giggles his way through the day, feeling refreshed.

He’s almost tempted to make one of Niall’s color coded lists as he gets shit done: check, check, check. He fairly shimmies into the door that evening, reminds himself absently to call Ant and Danny soon.

Everyone is in the living room.

Zayn sways around the floppy mess of Louis and Harry curled in front of the couch and Liam’s heeled booties sticking out from under the coffee table. Niall is draped over him like a knobby blanket, hair flat and magically gone sky blue in the few hours since Zayn last saw him. Shaking his head, he flops onto the couch and stretches out. Might as well put it to some use.

His roommates and furniture, honestly.

Liam mumbles a hello to Zayn and there’s a metallic sound from under the table.

Niall says, “Heya Zayno,” and then tilts his head down under the table for a second, “No, Li that’s the nut not the screw.”

“Screw you,” Zayn choruses with Liam.

Louis cackles and applauds.

“Fuckers,” Niall laughs and wriggles on top of Liam.

“Ohh,” Harry is mumbling, “That’s a good one. I’m gonna send that to Tay.” Ze practically balances zir phone on zir nose to type at it.

“Where _is_ your squash?” Louis drums the baseline of _Wake Me Up When September Ends_ on Harry’s back.

Zayn scratches his nose against the couch cushion and tells himself to stop letting Louis pick the road mixes. It is a fair question, though. Zayn hasn’t seen Taylor around much, which is weird for Harry being back for over a week.

“Squish,” Harry corrects, “but we prefer z –”

“No, a zucchini is a squash. I’m sure of it. Zayn told me so.” Louis says, pinching Harry’s side.

“Oh!” Harry laughs and tucks zir chin into zir chest. “Good one.” Harry says, and means it.

 Zayn would meet someone’s eyes to share a look of despair but Liam’s nodding like he’s in lecture and Niall is laughing too. Zayn loves a bunch of tangerines. 

“Taylor’s got a thing - like see, we were down at the charity art showing for Travis County – they have a lot of really cute Labrador puppies, not nearly enough fosterers, just so everyone is aware,” Harry says.

“No,” Niall says, firm like he only is when the sanctity of a clean rug or noise curfew comes into question. Zayn smirks into the pillow he’s flopped onto for the duration of Harry Storytime.

Harry pauses long enough to pull an ‘I’m sad about this and I’m letting you know by showing sadness with my whole face’ expression and then continues on breezily, “The shelter charity art show wants to expand their artistic repertoire so they’re asking for performers to volunteer, too. Taylor signed up.”

“Does this mean we have to put a Harry performance on our calendars, too?” Zayn turns his head to watch Niall kick his feet from where they’re thrown over Liam and the beanbag.

Harry huffs, back too straight and nose in the air.

Zayn waits.

Louis drums a bit more. The sound echoes like Harry is hollow. Maybe Harry is a bird. That would explain a lot, actually.

“Fine,” Harry says, finally, like someone was pressing zir. “Yes. But more than that, are any of you going to give to the cause?” Zir eyes narrow.

 _Or else_ , Zayn finishes in his head. Too serious about small things, Harry is sometimes.

“Sure,” Zayn flops a hand. It’s not a huge deal. He’ll go in on Harry’s performance and keep to the side. People’ll hardly notice him.

“Yeah!” Liam pops up from his place under the table. “It sounds great, Haz.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and catches sight of Niall leaning into Louis’ side, precise like. Louis’ shoulders tense. He frowns a bit. Niall whispers something into the dark space of Louis’ neck. Louis’ mouth twists.

Zayn curls his fingers into the raggedy couch cushions and reminds himself it’s not his business. Still, he looks up to watch as Louis presses a kiss to Niall’s cheek and noses into his bright blue hair. Niall smiles like the sun peeking out between pearly white, dentist-straightened clouds and Zayn pulls his eyes away forcefully, turning his whole body.

He ends up looking straight at Harry, who is looking straight at him.

“What,” he mouths, defenses prickly.

Harry purses zir lips, bringing up one hand to rub freshly manicured floral nails across zir chin slowly. Friday. Spa day with Taylor, Zayn remembers. In his calendar as “Viva (la) Spa Day,” a play on the name of the spa that Harry still finds funny after two years.

There’s a tap on his ankles and he looks up to find Harry giving him an eye.

He shakes his head.

Harry nods, insisting.

Zayn sighs and tries to smother himself with the throw pillow that still smells like that time Liam bumped Niall’s bowl of chili onto it.

He wishes Harry was less Harry sometimes.

The same way he wishes Louis was less Louis sometimes, but he wouldn’t want either of them to ever change because he also doesn’t know what he would do without either one of them anymore. They balance something in him he didn’t even know was off kilter. Similar in ways that Zayn doesn’t know how to word, but has spent afternoons curled around the neighborhood cat in their hammock out back, trying to parse out enough to get it down in a moleskin.

Louis and Harry, whose hands Zayn can trust himself to fall into, to thrust into, to draw on idly - who are both sharp and oblivious in turns, and brilliantly, breathtakingly gentle and cognizant in others.

Harry and Louis, who like to show him food carts and ticklish spots on each other and Liam and Niall and who smile at him like he’s remade the world, post flood, just for them to be born into.

He pulls the pillow away so he can take a few steadying breaths and comes face to face with Liam, tongue out and eyes wide.

“Fucking hell,” he shouts as his body tries to jump. He ends up kneeing Liam in the ribs.

“Oh god,” Liam wheezes and draws back a bit to curl over.

Hysterical laughter blooms from behind them.

“I’ll kill you all,” Zayn threatens.

They laugh louder.

Zayn watches Liam try and regain his breath and feels at least a little better that Liam got what he deserved.

Liam glances at him, eyes red rimmed and hand curled around his middle.

Zayn smiles sweetly at him, “Help me get them back and I won’t,” Zayn pauses for effect, “have to punish you for this.” He trails a finger up Liam’s arm carefully and watches his pupils dilate. Zayn knows, from well tested experience, the inside of Liam’s elbow is almost too sensitive. He runs a nail over it delicately and Liam shivers violently.

“Okay,” he rasps, finally.

Zayn smiles smugly and kisses the end of his spongey nose.

“Now, get off me.”

Liam skitters.

Zayn leans his head back more comfortably against the couch lumps and sighs.

They’re supposed to go out tonight, someplace Harry’s picked up from a friend of a friend, someplace a little more fancy than their usual Paul’s level of grunge. Zayn’s not unhappy, but he feels worn. It’s been a week. And Sunday will be Harry’s last day here and then Zayn will be alone in their bed again.

Then, Zayn will be alone with whatever this sticky, tacky feeling is in his chest.

He wishes he knew anymore how to be good on his own.

Zayn loves Harry. He loves zir so much. But sometimes, sometimes he wonders what it would be like to not, to not have that strange almost uncomfortable jolt in his stomach at just the thought of zir. He doesn’t know if that makes him a bad person or just a person in a romantic relationship.

Later, he watches Harry fixing the, like, 60 straps of zir dress and thinks it’s a fairly accurate allegory for them. Too many supporting lines, too much pull, too much too much.

Still, he smiles encouraging when Harry checks in the mirror for his approval.

Harry stares at him for a moment, tall and gorgeous and perceptive. Zayn hopes ze isn’t seeing what he’s feeling, squashed and rough-edged and ugly. “You’ll let me know, when you’re ready to talk about whatever it is?”

There’s no tension to the air, no building pressure but Zayn’s inhale catches sharp in his chest anyway. Harry looks back to the mirror, fixes a tiny smudge of plum at the corner of zir mouth.

“Yeah,” Zayn croaks out. “Yeah.”

He pulls Harry close and kisses zir senseless, presses thank yous into zir skin and hopes they go deeper than the fingerprints of bruises still there from earlier this week.

They go to Mai Thai, first, because Liam wants plum wine and they’re all soft for him and anyway the coconut shrimp are –

“Fucking delicious,” Niall smacks his lips.

“Mmmmm,” Zayn agrees, closing his eyes as he bites into another.

The other customers give them looks every now and then. Whether it’s because Niall is moaning or he is, or Louis is or Harry is, or because of what everyone is decked out in, Zayn doesn’t know or particularly care. Liam’s dress is leather and cuts off into fringe short enough that it’s not even in danger of touching his knee high boots. Louis is wearing a shirt that is clean and actual, legitimate leather pants. Niall’s got on a broken-in leather jacket, a shirt that shows his nipples every other move and real live cowboy boots. Zayn catches the reflection of his own floral button down with leather accents in the window and smiles.

They’re a little themed. They look damn good.

Zayn is a little smug, the whole night.

He drifts from one of them to the next, handsy and giggly. It’s okay though, they’re handsy and giggly back.

Skylark is jazzy.

Like, actual-live-jazz-band-playing jazzy.

Harry claps, delighted.

“Well,” Louis says, and pulls Niall to the bar by his collar. Zayn tucks his chin over Liam’s shoulder and slots them together to follow.

The night burns crisp and floppy like a developing polaroid and Zayn loves, loves the way they are. He kisses Harry for so long his lungs ache. Harry smiles, wicked and sweet and spins him back to the floor for more.

Sometime around Zayn’s umpteenth gin and tonic and 3 of his buttons coming undone, Liam and Niall squish them all into a cab and tip them all home. The cabbie has purple hair.

“You should,” Zayn says into Niall’s neck, “pretty, too.”

“Yes Zayn,” Niall says.

All of them stumble coming into the house, which means they all end up sorta flopping onto the middle of the living room floor and laughing their drunk asses off. The room is a lot more colorful and spinny than Zayn remembers.

Someone covers him with something soft and breathing. He curls around it and someone curls around him. Another person nuzzles into his hair.

He could really, really get used to this, he thinks, as he floats off to sleep.

The morning burns hot against his eyes as he stumbles from dreams into Niall cooking waffles.

“B’ueb’rry?” Zayn mumble-asks.

“Advil,” Niall says, quieter than his usual morning glow.

Zayn realizes Niall’s using the waffle-maker instead of the stove like normal. He nods his head in agreement and then stops nodding immediately.

He takes the Advil.

Everyone toddles in a bit worse for the wear, floppy like over-grilled tomatoes in the Texas heat.

“I miss temperatures sustainable to human life,” Louis says, face pressed to the table pathetically.

Liam groans an agreement from his place on top of Harry, zir face also pressed to the table pathetically.

They’re themed again, but for some reason it’s less fun now.

The day passes sluggishly.

At some point Liam is gone, so he must drag himself off to practice somehow. Niall disappears for a bit too, but then Harry finds him in the tire swing and raises enough commotion to wake him up and save him from the sun’s “dastardly plans.”

“Good job, H,” Zayn gives zir a weak thumbs-up.

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis reminds them, from his bean-bag fort.

Privately, Zayn covers his smile with his I Am Being Pathetic Blanket, and agrees.

Finally it’s dark enough they can pretend to have done something worthy of going back to sleep.

Zayn’s sleep is molasses, slow at the edges, colors drawn on too long to feel anything but overdone. He wakes up possibly more tired than before, but only as light-sensitive as usual.

“Okay,” he relents to Liam and Niall.

The three of them settle in the living room with $200 books and grim looks.

Niall talks through the history portion of the afternoon, and Liam talks through the psychology and Zayn talks through the rest. Gradually, Zayn’s head slips further and further down until the cactus stitching in Niall’s daisy dukes presses at his forehead. Niall smells like fresh air and sandlewood.

He stays there for a chapter, breathing deep.

“Z, what’s this mean, again, sorry,” Liam sighs from beside him and Zayn scoots up to rub at Liam’s clenched forearm.

“Here,” he directs, “it’s pretty simple.”

They celebrate with curry.

Haz texts the group with a ‘ _Go ahead, please. I’ll be home later xx_ ’ and Zayn rolls his eyes, laughing, when Louis responds with a mix of banana and poo emoji, ‘ _2 much froyo mkes ur stuff all green hazzaroll, bware ~_ ’

Niall sits on the counter as Louis and Liam fuss over the curry and chicken, with Bressie on call. They’re talking something about flowers for Eoghan, some game of floral one-up-manship Zayn doesn’t understand, but admires from afar nonetheless. It’s sweet to see the way they work, Niall and Bressie queer platonic and both Niall and Bressie with romantic partners, but it’s all different than how that works with Harry and Zayn and their others. It’s cool.

Somewhere, someone has left a bad Spotify playlist running and a vocalist keeps droning on about oranges.

Zayn tucks his thumb to the bend of Niall’s knee and smiles back at him.

Later, after Louis has smeared yellow curry halfway down Liam’s neck and then licked it off and Liam has flushed and excused himself from the table, Niall comes out of his room in something blue and sparkly with silver stars, hair a tousled loveliness.

Louis whistles loudly and Zayn’s throat goes dry. He pulls out his phone to give himself something to do.

Louis and Niall are going on a date.

“Off to Never Never Land,” Louis shouts, swaying Niall out the front door by the hips.

Niall’s laughter trails back like a half-forgotten melody.

Zayn leans his chin on his palm and thumbs open his messages, forces himself focused. 4 from his mom in varying states of, _I hope you’re doing well, but if you don’t answer soon I am on the next plane to Texas to twist your ear_. Zayn smiles and types out a cleaned up version of this week. He snaps a picture of their decimated dinner to Waliyha to show to her and clicks through to everyone else’s stories.

He gets caught up with Harry here is all, feeling like he needs to focus all his attention because Harry’s always gone between one blink and the next. Like a 4 year old, tucked into bed, he has to keep his eyes open so nothing can slip away. Like, it’s zir last day here, and yet ze’s out with friends at some yuppy froyo place.

Zayn sighs and swipes through the official snap stories.

“Oh,” he mutters, out loud.

National Coming Out Day. He’d forgotten, even though Niall had put a little reminder on their joint calendars with a lot of heart eyes emojis. Grinning, he taps the icon and an explosion of cheering from some dark party rings through the kitchen.   

He laughs and clicks down the volume.

All the stories are sweet, people pressed close to each other and kissing or crying or kissing and crying. A lot of flags. Zayn admires the gumption of the person pole dancing in their living room while their friends scream encouragement.

Liam slams open his bedroom door and Zayn glances up as he comes into the kitchen.

“’Kay babes?”

“Yes,” Liam exhales, “Fine. Great. Wonderful.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows and just says, “Okay,” mildly.

Liam jerks open the freezer and begins muttering, “…like we haven’t had 12 practices this week.” He slams it shut and then presses the frozen water bottle to his face, looking fairly pathetic. Zayn’s lips twitch. Chest puffed out, Liam wanders off into the living room and then wanders back out with his sports duffle. “…show up in a sundress next time,” Liam grumbles as he tosses his cleats into the bag, moving back down the hall.

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek and glances down at his phone as a distraction. Someone is standing on the capitol steps, waving the aromantic flag.

Liam fusses loudly with the front door and then calls back a mopey, “Bye, Zaynie.”

“Bye, Payno,” Zayn calls back, sounding a little choked.

He barely manages to last until the door clicks shut before he’s laughing, curling over the table a bit. Maybe he shouldn’t, but the repetitiveness of it is too funny for words. Every other Sunday, like clock-work.

He grins to himself as he watches the rest of the story.

One of the last videos is someone wrapped so fully around another person, Zayn can barely tell where one’s green hair ends and the other’s brown begins. They’ve got a trans flag pulled close like a blanket. Zayn’s smile softens and he clicks up the volume in time to hear, “…for supporting me in my transition, and for being the best, best girlfriend in the world.”

The other person laughs and says, “I love you for being you,” and then a little softer, “and for helping me find out my own gender.”

The video cuts off to another one of someone singing, a parade, a group of friends toasting, then back to the main screen. The story swipes out of sight.

He sits there for a moment replaying it in his head. It was gorgeous. It was easy. The way their voices went gentle and whole, talking about their gender, like Zayn sees sometimes in class when someone genuinely, truly loves a text.

Zayn gathers up plates and sets them on the counter. He flicks on the tap, testing the bubbly-strange-warm feeling in his stomach.

He thinks it must be incredible, is all – getting to feel that feeling of gender euphoria, delight in your own unique youness and then having that understood by your partner, reflected back and smiled about.

His phone blares beside him and he splashes water over the counter. It’s Danny.

“Vas happenin’?” Zayn drawls as he juggles the phone to the crook of his shoulder.

Danny laughs, talks about nothing, talks about fixing up the ‘93 corvette they found the other day, about the paint can that exploded in Ant’s face on Friday. Zayn laughs and misses them.

The front door jingles as Danny’s talking about the new girl he’s dating. He waxes on about the way her hair, her eyes and Zayn can feel himself getting sappy and gooey like over cooked rice.

Good timing, he thinks, as Harry calls out a “Hoooooney.”

“Hey, Danny,” Zayn starts, feels a little bad about cutting him off, but not bad enough to not want to drop the phone on the counter and just go to Harry already.

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny chuckles, “go on, you horn dog.”

Zayn blows a raspberry at him and drops the phone on the counter. He makes a slight detour to dig to the back of the what-not drawer for one of the sample things of lube that they seem to keep around like leftover condiment packages and then he’s in the hallway and Harry is still standing by the door, waiting.

Zayn eyes zir for a moment, and Harry watches back.

Ze is all bright penguin patterns and long necklines and bare shoulders, tattoos a spread of watercolor across zir shoulders. And Zayn can’t count the number of times he’s kissed zir skin or held zir hand under the needle, knows the shape of all the shapes of Harry – the bambi, the moth, the hummingbirds, the captivating geometrics, the bits they share. He loves Harry so much, it feels painful in his chest, too much to hold onto.

Harry is leaving tomorrow.

He breathes deep and tries to hold on. He moves forward and leans around Harry to the door.

“We having sex?” Harry asks, casual.

“We’re having sex,” Zayn nods, and flips the lock. He leaves the thing of lube open on the side table. “You need a mo’?”

“Nope,” Harry shakes zir curls.

They stand still for a moment, just looking at each other. Then, Zayn reaches out a hand to push Harry back against the wall and Harry goes like liquid.

Zir eyes close tight, and then open.

They come together hard enough to jostle Zayn’s head and he doesn’t – he doesn’t care, at all.

It’s hot and messy and frantic.

Zayn gasps into the curve of Harry’s neck and bites down whenever he can rummage up enough of his brain to do it. Harry has one hand against the curio cabinet to balance them and one wrapped fiercely around Zayn’s cock.

It’s so good it thrums in the back of Zayn’s throat.

He tries to get a hand down on Harry but ze fairly growls at him, bucking his hand off so he has to catch himself against the wall. They jolt together even closer. The tightening of Harry’s hand sends Zayn back to groaning. He muffles himself by digging his teeth into zir shoulder.

“Fuck,” ze cusses.

“Fuck,” Zayn agrees.

Harry thumbs just under the head of his cock.

“I want you to come.”

Jesus.

“Okay,” Zayn agrees, laughing breathlessly as his knees shake.

Ze pulls him off like ze’s working for a medal in it, teeth set into zir lip and face serious. It makes Zayn laugh a little more, ducking his face back against zir shoulder. He worries at the skin, determined to leave a mark around the letters he’s tattooed himself into Harry’s skin. Something hotter than passion curls low in his stomach, as Harry leans zir head back, lets him bite down harder.

Zir hand goes tighter, strokes pulling firmer every time Zayn bites.

He groans.

It does this, turns into a cycle between them where they can use each other’s pleasure to get off. That thing in the back of Zayn’s head that makes him like Harry trussed up, makes him like taking care of Harry trussed up, feels close and heavy. He can feel himself sinking into the headspace.

He can control Harry’s hands just by kissing zir.

It’s a headrush.

He works a series of bold hickies along the line of Harry’s collar where ze won’t want to foundation and lets his hips jerk forward as zir strokes go faster, faster, faster in response.

“Zaaaayn,” Harry complains, breathless and head still tilted back.

“Looks good,” he says, instead, bites down to make Harry squeeze him.

“Mhfhg,” Harry says.

He eases back a bit as his orgasm builds in his stomach, as Harry’s face starts to get that determined edge to it again. The way the rough edges of zir fingers catch against the gone-tacky lube is so good. Zayn kisses zir, instead. Softly, he makes zir hand go light, fingers playing at the exposed head of his cock in silly, effective patterns that turn his spine loose and his limbs jerky.

Harry swipes the side of zir thumb over his slit, side of zir manicured nail just barely catching.

Zayn clenches his teeth and pulls back from their kiss. The pain flickers across his body, burns deliciously.

“Hell, Haz.”

Harry grins.

Zir fingers move to frame the curve of his dick, a strange sensation as ze Vs upwards, nearly tickling. Zayn kisses the corner of zir jaw, the curve of zir ear and Harry goes back to those sweeping motions, alternating between his slit and just under the head, playing with the crown.

Zayn groans, struggles to keep his kisses light when his whole body feels like it’s shaking apart.

He chases after the tingly, lightheaded, not quite barely there orgasm that’s always so rewarding. It also happens to leave him energized afterwards, instead of puddly.

He has plans. 

He comes to the sound of Harry muttering, “C’mon, please, c’mon, please,” like they’re interchangeable. The sensation swoops through him, rushes from the back of his head all the way to where his toes curl. It flickers his vision and he collapses forward into Harry, vaguely seeing himself spill into the curl of Harry’s fingers. His breathing has gone ragged, stomach muscles twitching as Harry keeps lightly working him through it, fingers still drawing patterns like some perverse finger painting.

He laughs his way through the aftershocks, and hears Harry echo him quietly.

Zayn leans there for a moment, closing his eyes to enjoy the afterglow.

“Clean,” he says, a little shakily.

Harry hums a thank you, like ze wouldn’t have done it anyway if Zayn hadn’t said anything. Ze lets go of Zayn’s dick carefully and there’s a distinct sucking sound.

He takes five deep, controlled breaths in time with Harry sucking his come off of zir fingers. Zir free hand rubs from the bottom of his spine to his shoulders. There’s come drying all over his jeans as he tucks himself back in and it’s gonna be a hell of a laundry load but his chest feels light and full and Harry is leaning against him with zir muscles tense and waiting.

“Right,” he says finally. He drops to his knees.

Harry’s breath goes out in one long shake.

“Wanna get my mouth on you, yeah?” Zayn slides his hands under the hem of Harry’s skirt, rubs a circle into the inside of zir thigh.

“Fuck,” ze says.

Zayn waits.

“Yes,” Harry croaks, “god, please.”

He grins into the bend of Harry’s knee, then grins wider when it quakes a little. _Same_ , he thinks. This is why they’re so good together, he thinks. Balance.

“Well,” he drawls, “Just since you asked so nicely.”

“Please.”

“Shh,” he gentles. He takes Harry’s hand in his and lets zir squeeze at it.

Then, he directs zir hand to his hair. Harry is a little shaky but grips hard enough to send a pleasurable thrum down Zayn’s spine. There’s something to be said for having a partner who also likes having their hair pulled, really.

The skirt is pleated. Pulling it up, Zayn has some vivid thoughts of potential high school desk fantasies they could enact. Harry’s always said ze likes Zayn in a letterman. Zayn hums as he hooks his thumbs into Harry’s magenta boxer briefs and tucks the thought away for later. He leaves them caught around Harry’s thighs. They both enjoy the way it gives Harry less control, makes zir tilt zir hips at a harsh angle, even if Zayn does have to be careful not to garrote himself on them or suffocate under zir skirt.

Worth it, though, Zayn thinks as he presses just the tip of his tongue to where Harry’s gone wet and flushed. Ze groans quietly and Zayn allows himself a moment to grin.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Harry arches up against Zayn, brushing zir happy trail against his nose. He breathes in enough to get a whiff of the almost cloying smell of Harry, something so sweet, yet so sharply tanging.

Zayn’s throat goes dry, “Yeah, yeah.”

He lowers his head and sucks in one movement.

“Fuck!”

He grins against zir skin and laves his tongue down. He focuses for a second on the edge of where Harry's hair is shaved to a line. The contrast of the bristles and zir skin thrills him. Something about the texture of a person Zayn enjoys, even knowing he has to be mindful of any potential unsexy stray hairs, there's so much in this.

There’s Zayn closing his eyes to map out the feel of Harry like a familiar walk home. There’s Harry whimpering softly, while Zayn licks around where ze’s most sensitive. There’s zir hands in his hair as he sets to work biting and kissing and rubbing and stroking.

He bites his way down zir left v-line, sets his teeth into zir tendons at the apex of where ze’s gone all hot and flushed. He presses a finger to the slick of zir, rubs a precise circle and feels the way zir thighs shake.

“Steady,” he tempers, one hand trailing down the back of zir leg, to cup around the back of zir knee.

“Yes, yes,” Harry struggles for breath.

Oral standing up gets zir going like almost nothing else. _‘Something about having to stand there, to take it, having you on your knees but knowing – knowing I’m not in control,_ ’ ze’d mumbled into Zayn’s shoulder once, early on, when they were exploring and figuring out the boundaries of their own boundaries, the boundaries of them.

Now, Harry is good, knows well enough to stay still while Zayn licks and sucks and takes zir into his mouth one curiosity at a time. Ze keeps up a running commentary of sounds for Zayn and he rewards zir by lingering in one spot, pulling blood to the already throbbing skin with bites and sucks. He closes his teeth carefully, relentlessly around a mouthful of zir, judging how far he can go by the volume of Harry’s gasps. He holds down for a moment and they reach fever pitch.

He pulls back just enough to breathe over zir. Goosebumps flicker over the skin of zir thighs, just visible in the dim, skirt-blocked light.

“Does it hurt?” Zayn asks, lightly.

“Oh god,” Harry sounds close to tears, “Yes, yeah, ‘does.”

Zayn presses a gentle kiss to the bite mark, “Good.”

Harry’s body shudders against him.

He plays his fingers from the top to bottom of zir, ends with a pinch to zir inner thigh that gets Harry to cry out. Everything is so slick and red. Harry’s always been like this, zir turned on really looking like someone has turned zir whole body on, on all the way up to 12. Zayn kisses sloppily at zir, enjoying the way his neck is starting to strain and his lips are a little numb.

Just desserts for hard work. He smirks into zir skin, teases with a little nip.

“Your hips okay?” he asks, because his knees have gone into that stage of lead that’s gonna be hell getting up and walking away from.

“Yes,” Harry’s hand twitches in his hair.

Zayn leans his head against zir thigh, traps the skirt there and idly draws his fingers along the thick line of slick along the middle of zir.

“Back okay?”

“Yes,” Harry hisses.

“Mmkay,” Zayn noses at zir thigh, lax.

“Zayn.”

“Harry.”

Ze breathes hard, thigh muscles contracting under Zayn’s head. He pulls his head up a little and draws a firm hold around zir knee. Then, flicks his fingers easily against the heat of zir, the snap of it routine from practice.

Harry jumps and zir voice breaks into a cut-off croak.

Zayn pats the back of zir knee and lets go.

Wheezing almost, Harry lets Zayn push zir legs father apart, holding admirably still. Kissing at the taste of zir, Zayn sucks humming rewards around zir. It’s a bit like a punishment, given the state of the entire cradle of zir hips. But that’s okay, it works for them.

Sure enough, Harry moans happily and cants zir hips up even more.

Zayn rubs his tongue to tingling along the slick curves, the stark veins of zir, until he can feel the clenching of zir stomach muscles go rhythmic. Too many kegel exercise dates with Liam, Zayn always says, but he can’t really complain when he’s inside or beside or against either of them. Can’t really complain when it gets Harry like this, struggling against Zayn and gasping, the hand that’s not loose in Zayn’s hair pulling at zir own messy curls.

Zayn pulls back, holding the skirt to the side and winces a bit as it jostles his knees, pushes down the pain to deal with later, after.

“You gonna come,” Zayn rubs his thumb against zir, “tugging at your own hair, hm?”

“Fuck,” Harry says, hand curling tighter.

“Desperate for it,” Zayn prompts.

“Please.”

Zayn swivels the whole of his palm against Harry.

There’s a bite mark on zir thigh that’s nearly purple. It’ll hurt tomorrow, sitting down. Hopefully the next for days after. Hopefully for as long as it takes Harry to come back to him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself when Harry’s not there to be in tune with, it feels. Feels like the jagged, amped up lines inside of him only even out when he’s here, making Harry feel so good ze’s got tear tracks down zir cheeks and zir steady stance is finally slipping.

“Okay, babe,” he whispers, “You’re good. C’mon.”

Harry comes, sobbing and Zayn gathers zir close, brushes reassurance over zir skin with his soft, firm touches.

They stay like that, Zayn letting Harry cry, letting Harry decompress, letting Harry wander off into a soft place where zir shoulders go soft and eyes go half closed. Ze smiles like a spring morning, all damp and stunning and so perfect Zayn doesn’t want to move. He endures the stabbing in his knees to press numb kisses to Harry’s temple and cheeks, whispering nonsense.

Eventually, he steadies them both to the bathroom, takes off Harry’s bra and rubs carefully at the indent line. He guides Harry gently through a very quick rinse, heart catching at the giggles Harry gives as he towels zir off.

He kisses zir nose.

“You’re so amazing, you’re beautiful, amazing, amazing, amazing,” he murmurs into the soft space of Harry’s neck, in bed.

Harry floats, still spacey, still safe in Zayn’s arms. Ze mumbles something back, Zayn’s name, like it’s the only word ze remembers.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, “Miss you so much.”

He tightens his grip as they fade into sleep.

Harry leaves in the morning.

Niall’s not there, gone off to a meeting for a club he’s president of – Zayn can never keep track of them all – and it’s a bit somber. Louis hugs too tightly and Zayn watches the way his hands curl around the curve of Harry’s waist, the way Harry tries to bury zirself against Louis. Liam doesn’t bother to tug them apart, just plasters himself to Harry’s back and noses into zir hair until Zayn can barely tell the difference between Liam’s sleep-curls and Harry’s.

When it’s his turn, his hands ache and crackle like they’re decades older than he is. He’s careful with Harry, resists the way his hands want to grab at zir hips, press down into the bruises on zir throat, laid bare to the world.

Harry tries to push closer and he kisses zir gently, says a rough, “You have to get going.”

He skives off going to drop Harry off, ignores the way that Liam makes a quiet sound and Harry’s jaw clenches and then ze flounces away deliberately. Louis is texting Lottie about something and Zayn moves off before he can look up.

The house echoes without them.

Zayn rubs his hand over his face and opens his calendar.

He’s just got to make it through today, and then tomorrow and then whatever other days come his way. He stuffs his phone under the pillow and gets to work answering undergraduate questions about 18th century magical realism.

“It’s important to remain contextually aware, in a deconstruction,” he reminds the class on Tuesday.

A hand raises.

“Yes, Mai?”

She clears her throat a little bit and points her pen down at him vaguely from her 5th row spot. “The projector is set to your desktop. Just so, you’re contextually aware.”

There’s a few muffled twitters of laughter.

Zayn looks down at the laptop background picture of him and Harry curled up in the hammock that Niall quietly and precisely took last summer. He looks up at the picture blown up on the wall to 72 students.

“Thank you, Mai,” he sighs.

Layan’s office is sun warmed by 4 o’clock. Perfect baking temperature for his hours. She looks up from the newest manuscript long enough to throw him a wink.

“Happens to everyone, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles and curls around the corner desk to grade.

At least the monotony of grading is reliable.

He falls deep enough into his readings and gathering sources and looking over research proposals for the department, it’s Thursday before he realizes he hasn’t seen his phone. It’s not that it’s unusual to lose it, it’s just none of the boys have talked about it at home either, casual as anything.

“Have you messaged me recently?” he asks Niall, as they lean against the kitchen counter, eating strawberry yogurt out of the tub.

Niall taps the spoon against the rim and frowns a bit, “No?”

“You message me all the time, Niall.”

“You don’t answer, all the time, Zayn.”

Which, “fair.” But, “I think I’ve lost my phone,” Zayn sighs.

Niall laughs.

“Rude.”

“Zayn,” Niall laughs some more, “If you didn’t lose your phone once a week, think I’d have to call the state patrol and tell them to watch out for flying bucks.”

Zayn takes a ginormous spoonful of yogurt and doesn’t dignify that with a response.

A sound like an explosion rings from the living room and Liam cusses loudly. Louis guffaws and Eleanor laughs like wind chimes over it. Andy says something with Liam’s name in it. Game night is becoming as popular as it is competitive.

“Do you want me to call it?” Niall asks.

“No.”

“No no or no I’m grumpy no?” Niall’s spoon taps Zayn’s index finger.

“No.”

“Alrighty,” Niall drawls and pulls out his phone.

Zayn can just see the flood of notifications lining the top bar of Niall’s phone as Niall dials. Dials from actual memory, not from a contact. He shakes his head. Niall’s a marvel.

They listen quietly for a moment, the ratatat of Call of Duty in the living room mingling with the rhythm of their breathing and the rush of the AC working overtime. You would think October would fucking mean cooler weather, but no, Texas just has to be different.

A tinkle of notes just barely sounds.

“Hmm,” Niall says and wanders out of the kitchen.

Zayn puts the tub on the counter and follows, letting his fingers trail on the picture frames on the wall. It’s strangely nice, to see all of their families mixed up like they are, Harry’s, then Niall’s then Zayn’s then Niall’s then Louis’ then Liam’s then Liam’s again. Some silly order known only as cohabitation.

“Ah,” Niall says, stopping in front of Zayn’s door as his ring tone sounds from inside.

Zayn pulls up beside him.

“Oops?” he offers.

“Whoops.” Niall nods and leans back on the door jam so Zayn can turn the knob and head in. Niall stays back, like always. Zayn roots around aimlessly in the piles of laundry everywhere, glances over the pens on the desk and the candle shavings on the window sill.

“Again?” Zayn asks, and looks back at Niall still leaning outside the door.

Niall’s always like this. Has always refused to go into Zayn’s room

A curl of something hot and greedy burns in his stomach. Zayn feels the urge to push at it, to tug Niall into his space and try and get him to lay down in it _. Look, it’s just me_ , he wants to say. _Why does this bother you_ , he wants to pick at it, needs to feel it under his tongue like a split lip.

But he doesn’t. That’s Niall’s boundary. Harry and Zayn’s room isn’t his and he doesn’t go in.

Zayn swallows the hurt and digs his phone out from under Harry’s pillow the second time Niall calls it in a row.

He presses the home button to see 247 message alerts. There’s so many social media popups he has to scroll to see them all.

Niall laughs at the look on his face.

“This is horrifying,” Zayn mutters.

“Answer your phone,” Niall advises.

Zayn ignores him.

“Niiiiall,” Liam calls from the living room.

“Liiiiam,” Niall calls back and then wanders off.

Zayn decides to swipe away every message that’s from someone who didn’t attend his 8th birthday party.

He makes it about halfway down before he taps individually on skype, because he was actually supposed to get back to Professor Manard about that survey. Pass fail credit for 10 minutes is worth a tap, probably.

Professor Manard hasn’t messaged him, though.

Harry has.

And ze’s left 2 video messages.

“Fuck,” he closes his eyes and knocks his head back against the headboard.

He tries to think back – he hasn’t heard from zir since, “Since flying out.”

Oh hell.

It’s not like he means to do this, it’s just, he’s never been good at the connections that aren’t in his face tangible. It took even Niall a few weeks to understand, it doesn’t matter how compelling a message, a link, a video he sent, if Zayn wasn’t watching his phone immediately when it came in, chances were he’d let it float off.

He slumps into the messy bedsheets and presses play on the video messages.

Harry’s face comes into focus, hair band and sunnies from the day of zir flight and the blurry shapes of airport signs in the background.

“Right,” ze says, “I have arrived. You apparently don’t care, but I’m safe and I have a ride back to the dorm. I also got a message from your mom about dinner plans next month, but you apparently don’t care about that either so. I guess I’ll just let you go back to not caring.”

The message ends on a still of Harry’s jaw clenched tight, zir eyes squinted like ze’s looking to the sun.

Zayn closes his eyes and buries his head under his pillow like that will make the shameful blot of pain in his chest feel any better.

He keeps his head mostly under the pillow as he plays the next message.

It’s an explosion of sound. Some kind of flashing light streaming across the screen and it doesn’t look like anything Zayn knows except for the way that all clubs blend into another and if you’ve seen one sunken sweaty dancefloor you’ve seen most all of them.

Harry blurs into view, curls frizzy and crowding into the screen.

“Zaaaayn,” ze slurs, and Zayn knows then that Harry’s too far gone. There’s that line of confusion in zir voice that always heralds something they’ll both regret.

A thread of panic trails through Zayn. Who is ze with? 

“’m out!” Harry laughs, “Soooo out. Out and about –” the end trails off as the bass rises.

 _Where, Harry_ , Zayn thinks. He doesn’t know when this was though, could have been ages ago. Shit.

“We,” Harry swirls and the video turns into a mush of colors, “are having a fucking great time. Aren’t we?” Harry yells at someone.

Ben comes into view, laughing, Harry wrapped tight around him. “Yeah, Harry we are.”

Zayn’s face twists. Winston.

“Aren’t we!” Harry calls at large and Annie and Cara pop into view, looking just as messy as Harry. Someone’s arm presses a drink into Harry’s barely-lace covered chest and Harry takes the drink without looking, downs it.

“Babe,” Zayn says, quietly.

Ben laughs and moves off and Harry turns and attaches zirself to another dark shape. They turn and Zayn can just make out their voice “Oi! If it isn’t Harry Styles! Bird of the hour!”

Grimshaw. At least Harry isn’t alone then, but. Grimmy looks like he’s so far gone too, swaying under Harry so the phone shows the mess of the club for a second. When it turns back, Harry is downing something blue and in a shot glass.

Grimmy laughs and hands zir another one.

Harry downs that too, line of zir throat wet and highlighted in the neon flash of the club. Zayn swallows hard. Harry’s eyes are unfocused and blown when ze leans back into the camera.

“Look at me,” Harry breathes into the phone, “All ugly, just for you.”

Ze reaches for Grimmy’s shot and downs that too.

The call cuts out.

Zayn stares at the last frame for a second before he fumbles out of the app, pushing the pillow off of his head. He calls Harry with his teeth digging into his lip, fingers twisting the sheets.

The line rings.

And rings and rings and Zayn worries at the sheet stitches.

Finally, it clicks and Zayn starts, “Harry –”

“This is Harry Styles’ fucking great answering service and we are plastered as shiiiiiii –”

“- take mushrooms, Grimmy!” Harry’s voice is so slurred its almost lost, “They are so great. You are so great.”

There’s a loud sound of smacking kissing and cheering and someone laughing hysterically.

“What about the rest of us, are we chopped liver?”

“Nooo, c’mere –”

More sounds of loud, purposeful kissing.

Zayn pulls the phone back and presses to end the call. He watches the picture of Harry blink for a second. The shot of Harry in gauzy white and sparkles, the day of zir gallery showing back in July. Ze’s smiling softly and looking at someone off to the left.

It was taken a few weeks before Harry had gone back to Cali, a few weeks before the morning Harry left when they’d curled up in bed together for hours.

The sun is early.

Zayn is staring at a triangle of sun on Harry’s back and trying to figure out what could make a perfect triangle in their room, without moving. Harry is singing softly, something slow and lovely that makes Zayn close his eyes and lay his head on the curve of Harry’s spine.

“Zayn,” ze giggles, “That tickles.”

Zayn presses a kiss to the dimple just above the line of Harry’s panties.

“What are you singing?” he asks, after a kiss to the other dimple, just for equality sake.

Harry shifts a little and he moves his head back so ze can curl towards him, their legs tangling together easily. Harry brushes their noses together for a second and then closes zir eyes and settles down, smiling softly.

“Sea of love,” ze says, eventually.

Zayn runs a finger along the delicate humming bird with long wings stretched across zir collar, the _we are but stuff that dreams are made on/and our little life is rounded with a sleep_ mixed with oak and carnations on Harry’s lower ribs, the small avocado on zir shoulder like a green freckle.

He leans forward and presses his lips there gently, “Teach me the words?”

And Harry does.

At the end, Harry pulls out zir phone and says, “Wait, let’s, just once for –“

And Zayn sings “Come with me, my love, to the sea,” as Harry sings “Do you remember, when we met, that’s the day.” They sing “I wanna tell you, how much, I love you,” together.

Ze smiles against the skin of Zayn’s wrist and says, “Call me, sometimes, okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn says, and does.

And now –

Zayn doesn’t even know if there’s another copy of it.

He shoves his phone back into the bed and leaves their room. In the backyard, he curls up with _The Waves_ in the hammock. Maybe Tamar and Joy’s maine coon will come outside and purr up on him. 

He gets two chapters in before it bothers him enough he shuts the book and presses his fingers to his eyes.

There’s things, sometimes, as a couple that they can never seem to stop doing, arguments that have the same pattern they’ve run down to dirt time and time again. Little wounds they’ve left on each other Zayn always thinks have healed to scars that they continue to scratch at and bleed open.

Neither of them do well with being forgotten.

So it’s predictable they’d use it on each other for maximum effect.

But this is a new low for both of them. He didn’t check ze was safe and ze fucking did this shit.

“Fuck zir,” he says, out loud.

The trees rustle loudly in response.

He manages to rant his way through two days, keeps himself angry so he won’t be sad. He sends a message to Harry at 2 am, _glad you got back okay_ and thinks about sending a video message that’s just a full five minutes of him shouting wordlessly.

Louis mumbles threats at him, when he crawls into his bed later. Louis’ room is like a safe, over-warm den of garbage. Zayn tucks himself resolutely under Louis’ arm.

“I’m pathetic,” Zayn defends.

“Too right you are,” Louis yawns in his face.

He manages to be angry again in the morning, billowing out of the house before Niall has even finished breakfast. It’s a good thing coffee tastes disgusting, so he can drink it and match.

“Why didn’t you tell me to call Harry back?” He corners Liam in the hallway that afternoon, aware he’s being unfair and not caring enough to stop doing it.

Liam frowns at him, “Call Harry back about what? Ze said you guys were, quote, ‘Just fine.’”

Zayn snaps his wrist like a vehement _see!_

“Oh,” Liam says, quietly after a moment of looking at Zayn’s face. His shoulders curl up. “You didn’t call Harry and check on zir?”

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters and tugs at his hair.

“Jeeze.”

“I know, Liam, okay? I know.”

Liam’s jaw rolls. “Fine.”

He turns around and starts to head down the hallway.

“Wait,” Zayn tugs at his sweater, “I’m sorry, Li. It’s not your fault, you’re right, I’m sorry I’m a shit.”

Liam’s shoulders tense for a moment and then he leans back into Zayn’s touch. “You’re not a shit,” he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re just kinda shitty sometimes.”

Zayn laughs and it feels rough on his throat. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Liam nods. “You always do. But maybe you should ask Harry what ze wants you to try?”

Zayn rubs his knuckles against the line of Liam’s shoulder blade softly. “How’d you get so wise, huh?”

Liam grins and turns a bit so Zayn’s hand trails over his shoulder to his arm. Zayn rubs the soft texture of the chicken wing print between his fingers.

“Got you guys to make all the mistakes, don’t I?”

“Ooooh,” Zayn crows.

Liam laughs the crinkle laugh Zayn likes best. He rubs his thumb against Liam’s bicep and thinks of the shape of it under the cotton, the way it flexes when Liam is working hard or strains when Liam has to keep his hands above his head.

He looks up to see Liam watching him, a little pink around the edges. “I really do have to go, though.”

Zayn shifts his shoulders and lets go, recognizing that the urge to push Liam against the wall, gesture him to curl around Zayn and _stay, stay_ , isn’t helpful. Isn’t even okay, because part of Zayn is still thinking, _just don’t focus on Harry and it’ll be fine, it’ll get better. Just last till ze gets back._

Liam doesn’t deserve that.

Zayn lets him go and goes back to trying to sort through his mess of a life.

Harry sends back a _Thanks._ midday. Zayn looks at it for a moment and then pockets his phone and raises his hand for the question about South Indian authors of the 80s.

Eventually, his mom calls and Zayn ducks into a side building to get away from the sun to answer it.

Doniya is working too many shifts at the hospital just like Auntie does. Zayn disagrees. Zayn really ought to call his dad, _please_. Zayn agrees. Safaa wants a hoverboard. Zayn agrees again.

Trisha smiles a laugh and then asks carefully about Harry.

“We’re fine,” he assures her.

“Mm,” she hums, in that way of mothers everywhere.

“Really, promise.”

“Okay, sunshine,” there’s a rush of water that means she’s doing the dishes, “You be careful okay.”

“I am,” he says, cause he’s an idiot in love with an idiot, not an oblivious placemat. He lives in Texas and he goes to school at a place where acid balloons are yesterday’s news as well as tomorrow’s.

It makes him sick. His mom worrying makes him sick and worn.

“I love you,” she says and everyone around her chimes in with varying discernable loves.

“Love you all too,” He signs off with a smile and wanders around the building to avoid the sun for a bit.

It’s Waggener Hall, he realizes.

Not a bad hall to wander in, really. If you can get past the occasional screaming and the overabundance of trash cans lining the white arch hallways, it’s actually kinda nice. The age of the rooms feels like a worn quilt and the classics library is more than not bad.

Zayn’s been in it enough times to know where the water fountains are, a fair amount of his trips with Niall beside him, scouring for a proper study space.

Early on, when Niall was still small enough that Zayn swore he would turn around one day and find Niall had fallen into a pot hole or sunk underneath his cowboy hat for the last time, this had been his study zone. Zayn wasn’t sure why, he just knew enough not to say anything. Back then, there was still a sharp fear like the smell of new sharpie at the thought of losing Niall, the thought that one of his questions like _Why do you always insist on the same study room when you don’t even really like it?_ or _What did you really think of that Psych of Music class?_ or _I know you said you’re okay, but you’re laughing and it sounds like it hurts – can I help?_ might make Niall drop him off one night and not come back.

“Hey! Malik!”

Zayn blinks himself back to focus on the open door to his side.

“Huh?”

There’s a crowd of people, a cacophony of some club meeting that hasn’t settled into the agenda yet. A lot of neon hair and collars and hand holding. He squints at the board in front of the hall. Someone is writing down _National Coming Out Day – Post Celebration!!!_ in a bubbly script.

Ah. Pride, then.

“Zayn!” the voice calls again.

Zayn turns, trying to place it. It’s like a wall of people.

He latches onto an arm with wristbands waving off to the left. One of them is huge and magenta, with a dolphin on it.

He laughs and eases into the door and along the wall. “Hey, Kay,” he calls.

“Zayyyyn!” Kay says, drawing it out and waving harder.

Zayn steps around a couple talking quietly, pressed together very, very close on a wobbly desk. _Don’t do it_ , he almost says, the fractures aren’t worth it, because your partner will spend the next 12 weeks complaining about their foot and refusing to wear the medical boot and you will spend 12 weeks considering all the ways to get rid of their body without hurting them. Instead, he wriggles around a person doing a mild pelvic thrust and ends up face to face with Kay.

They’ve still got that smooth side buzz going on Zayn’s always admired, but never really had the umph to do. They’re holding hands with two of their partners Zayn recognizes from back when he hung out with the scene more, went through people fast enough to earn a reputation for it. He’s glad to see they’ve stuck together. Kay looks like a mini sun in the middle of an out-of-the-blue musical. Someone’s started on Time Warp.

Kay laughs and lets go of their partners to reach and pull Zayn into a hug. He grins back and hugs them easily.

“How you?” he raises his voice.

“Fucking fab!” they shout back, “How you, moody? Haven’t seen you round much, huh?”

He shrugs, “Moved. Got my TA position. Lost my phone.”

“Lost like 5 phones, more like.”

“Whoops.”

They roll their eyes, good natured and hold out a hand, “Gimme and I’ll give you insta or twitter this time instead of a number, honestly.”

He digs his phone out and unlocks it, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

While they’re typing away, he looks back to see their partners holding hands and leaning into two more people. They’re all wearing the same silver bracelet that Kay once nearly shoved in his face when plastered. “Look,” they’d said, “We got our promise bands. Aren’t we fucking gay.” And then they’d sighed so deep they’d nearly thrown up. It’d left a bit of an impression.

“Did you –“ He starts, then cuts himself off, because they’re friendly but not close enough for those kinda questions anymore.

Kay hands back his phone and raises one well-plucked magenta eyebrow.

“Nevermind, ha.”

“Out with it.”

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing_?”

“Fine,” he laughs, “But you’ll let me know if it’s too personal?

“Duh,” Kay rolls up the bottoms of their sleeves.

“Did you uh – did you open up your relationship? You guys were real adamant about being closed. Gave me a lecture once, if I remember – “

“Oh god,” Kay slaps a palm over their face, “God, I know, I’m sorry.” They reach out to Zayn’s hand, “It’s fair, we were a bunch of asses.”

Zayn takes their hand gently, “And now you’re even more.”

“Ha,” Kay laughs and squeezes at his hand, before glancing back at the foursome in their own bubble, “We kinda slipped into it, you know? Micah and Kori graduated quite a bit back, they go to the mosque over on 51st. Think you know em?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, because they do look really familiar if he puts non-rainbow clothes over them in his head, actually.

“They kinda talked to us about it. Showed us we could be more, could be happy and all together and not have to lecture people about it all, aha. Gave us an actual poly, you know?”

“Oh,” Zayn says, faintly. Then feels silly. Of course it’s possible – he just never really thought of it as like, a thing. A thing that could be as real as standing in front of a room full of people and talking about it nonchalantly.

Kori is like 25 and Micah is older. They have boring desk jobs and like to sit on their patio and drink tea and go to prayers regularly. They have a kid.

They’re in a five-way poly relationship, and it’s normal and happy and talked about.

Zayn flushes. Something in the bottom of his stomach rolls with tension.

One of them – Pooja, Zayn thinks – breaks off to launch at Kay’s back.

“Agh!”

Kay stumbles and Pooja catches them, kissing insistently at their neck.

“Yuuuuck,” Kay laughs.

Pooja grins, teeth flashing white.

Zayn can’t help smiling. They’re sweet. Reminds him a bit of Harry and Niall, floppy and everywhere on each other.

Not that Harry and Niall are together or anything, just - Zayn rubs at his temples. _Stop._

“Zayn, Pooja,” Kay shrugs a shoulder and bounces Pooja, “Xe’s an annoying taco but we love xir.”

Oh.

Pronoun changes. Zayn smiles wider at the both of them and nods at Pooja. He’s got it.

Xe winks back. “It’s new, but it’s feeling good, you know.”

“Hey, nice,” he says, and means it.

“Yup, yup.” Pooja smiles and does a bit of a dance, “just starting feeling lots of feelings that needed some new names,” xe looks down at Kay, “lucky, I knew someone who had a dictionary.”

Zayn’s “How cool,” is drowned out underneath Kay’s “What kind of sappy shit!” and them turning to launch at Pooja to kiss xir.

Zayn laughs and watches as they wrestle on the ground.

They both look happier than he can ever remember them being. Or, not even just happier, settled. Relaxed, like someone has come along and given their soul a massage or something. Painted their colors lighter and looser.

Gender is so cool.

Their partners are watching, Zayn notices, the three of them laughing, with their mouths pressed to one another and their faces bright like looking into the sun.

Love is so cool.

Zayn’s smile twists a bit. He’s jealous.

His breaths come a little hard.

“I uh – “ he says quietly, “I gotta go, Kay.”

“Okie!” Kay calls, from the pile.

Zayn holds his smile until he clears the room, walking faster and faster around congregations of people, explosions of color and pride. Everyone is wrapped around someone and wearing pronoun name tags.

 _Here is me_ , he thinks and his chest sinks with something strange and too much.

He exits and immediately turns for the parking lot, taking one of the side hallways where offices are. His breathing is a little sporadic. His eyes feel prickly.

Leaning back against the wall, he takes a deep breath and holds it. The air still tastes like summer. Someone’s made lasagna and it smells sharp, under the heat. He focuses on it purposefully for a moment, filling his mind, and then lets it all go.

He wants to go home.

He unlocks his phone as he heads out of the building, catching the door someone holds open for him with a quick “Thanks.”

He taps most recent and bites at his lip for a second before swiping.

It rings loudly in his ear. Then pauses, then rings again. He rubs his fingers together too rough, trying not to think of what will happen if ze doesn’t answer. If he has to hear something other than their own voices.

The third time it sounds, there’s finally a tiny click.

Then, silence.

“Harry?” Zayn asks, and unlocks the jeep.

A quiet inhale.

“H,” Zayn says, softer. He climbs into the jeep and turns on the AC before he closes the door. Texas priorities.

“Yeah?” Harry says, eventually.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry breathes quietly.

Zayn waits.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, a quiet strain in zir voice like a tightrope. Ze takes a big breath, “I’m still mad.”

“Okay,” Zayn says. Zayn is a little, too. But it’s getting old, quick. “Can I do anything?”

The AC makes a few stuttering sounds and Zayn lowers it a few dials. The line stays quiet. He rubs at the edge of the frayed seat upholstery, trying to be patient.

“I just want you to think about me,” Harry whispers.

“Oh, H,” Zayn presses the phone closer to his ear, “I think about you so much, babe.”

“Didn’t feel like it.” There’s a suspicious sniff.

Zayn leans his head against the steering wheel.

The sound of a nose blowing and it could be Harry’s allergies again, but Zayn bets not. He swallows hard.

Nothing to make you feel shitty quite like your partner crying because of the both of you. This is why, no matter how bad their arguments get, Zayn can’t stay mad long. He doesn’t do mad at Harry well. Doesn’t want to.

“I miss you so much I hate it,” he says, into the phone.

“Me too,” Harry says, hoarsely.

It doesn’t do much good really, because they also both want Harry to be able to do this, to have gallery shows and to impress and surprise the art elite. They both want Zayn to be able to finish his masters at one of the best lit programs in the country. They still wanna stay in a home filled with Liam and Louis and Niall. And all of these are incongruous, puts them right where they are right now, because they’ve had this argument before.

The line between them stretches long with low grade fuzz. The sun is lowering.

“I gotta go home, but I can call back when I get there?” _Do you want me to call?_ Zayn thinks.

Harry gives a wet laugh, “Still can’t drive while on the phone.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, fights to not smile, relief making his muscles weak, “Well, what else do we have Niall for, huh?” Zayn messes with the rear mirror. Finicky old useless thing, and finishes absently, “Wouldn’t wanna usurp the many talented man.”

“What else, indeed,” Harry says, voice slow and deep.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, not like nothing.

“Uhuh.”

Why are there suddenly 20 people walking behind him, honestly. He grunts, annoyed.

Harry laughs quietly in his ear and his eyes close for a second to focus on it.

“Love you,” he says, eyes still shut.

Harry murmurs nonsense back, “I love you too, Zayn. Don’t drive off the road.”

“That’s you, dear.”

“Bah!” Harry hangs up.

Giggling, he opens his eyes and drives home, only a little more careful than usual. Louis is crowded in the living room with a study group, Eleanor watching like a hawk, literally turning Louis’ head back to the books whenever he looks away. Zayn smiles, surprised, but in a good way. She’s been around more, which might explain why Louis’ textbooks and class notes have been around more.

Zayn leans his head on Liam’s shoulder, as he talks with Harry for their regular yoga date, until Liam kisses his temple and then gently sets him back at the table to go do some poses.

Niall’s there, with a massive bowl of salad and a glaze to his eyes that says he’s a little overwhelmed. Zayn fiddles around on his phone, checking email, half-heartedly reading a few paragraphs of course reading, before he’s bored.

“Whatchu doing?” he asks Niall.

Niall looks up from his phone, a bit of lettuce stuck to his bottom lip. “Uhm,” he swallows, “eating?”

“I mean,” Zayn gestures towards the phone a few inches from Niall’s nose.

“Oh. Asami is having a Halloween party.”

“It’s barely October.”

“It’s almost the second week of October.”

“Pft,” Zayn stretches his arms out across the table carefully, picking at a divot from one of their many knife throwing accidents, “Thought you were going to Laura’s anyway.” He remembers Niall mentioning something about it last movie night.

Niall grins at him, like he’s happy Zayn’s remembered, “Yeah, no reason I can’t do both though. Live a little. Or not, depending on your costume,” he winks.

“Lol,” Zayn says and pinches his side, friendly like.            

He stays and steals some of the salad until Niall delicately places his fork on the back of his hand and stares at him.

“I’ll just go get my gummies, huh.”

“Sounds great,” Niall nods and releases his hand.

Zayn gets them and eats, leaning his chin on top of Niall’s fluffy hair, at the perfect sitting height for stretching his back. It’s nice, ‘cause Niall will pause every few messages he sends to show something to Zayn – an Instagram video full of yapping puppies or a news story about the surface texture of Pluto or whatever.

Zayn rubs his fingers along the top of Niall’s ear lightly and watches the way his whole body shivers.

Niall clears his throat, but he doesn’t say anything, just loads up a story about some pro golfer’s new clothing line.

Zayn does it again, finger following the wobbly inner curve of skin.

“Zayn…” Niall says, quietly.

But he doesn’t say anything else. Zayn rubs his thumb over the incredible softness of his ear lobe, leaves it there for long enough he can actually feel it start to heat up.

“Soft,” he whispers.

Niall’s fingers are shaking on his phone.

“Zayn –“

“Zayn!” Liam calls from the hallway, and then skips into the room.

He jerks back away from Niall, hands clenching.

“Fuck,” he hears Niall breathe.

Zayn’s mouth has gone dry, his chest tight and twisted up overheated like he’s been found out. _Been found out what?_ he wants to shout at himself.

He wonders what Niall would say if he asked, _What is this? What the fuck is happening?_

“Stylesy for you, Zaynie,” Liam says and kisses Zayn’s face, catching the side of his mouth.

“Uh, yeah, thanks babe,” Zayn gathers up a smile for him and Liam crinkles back. He’s sweaty, mohawk all finger messed and tank mildly damp in a way that should be gross.

Liam ducks his head a bit and then leans forward to kiss Zayn more fully.

Sweet, is Liam.

Sweet like he’s never quite used to the idea that he’s here with all of them, that he can kiss Zayn or any of them, that he can crawl in their beds, that he’s built a home in all of their hearts. Liam always seems like he’s waiting for one of the walls to collapse.

Zayn can never let that be.

He kisses back, curls a hand around Liam’s waist and squeezes enough to feel the bit of pudge give. He loves that, smiles into the next kiss as Liam makes a small sound. He loves the shape of Liam, the way he tends to run his tongue along Zayn’s bottom lip like he can’t get enough of the shape.

Zayn kisses him until there’s a tiny voice shouting “Helloooooo! I am still here, you heathens!” from the phone and Zayn breaks away so Liam and him can laugh at Harry’s expense.

Liam’s flushed and bouncy, so Zayn pushes him towards the bathroom, “Go take a shower, minx.”

Liam blinks both eyes in his version of a wink and hands off the phone.

“Hey Haz,” Zayn brings it up to his ear.

“Finally,” Harry launches into a tirade on the dangers of red meat.

“Uhuh,” Zayn says and starts to head down to their room.

“- like I said to Niall the other day, I’m right, by the way, if he told you differently he was wrong –“

_Niall._

Zayn looks back to Niall. He’s curled intensely around his phone, slumped down and leaned over enough, the bowl looks like it could swallow him. Redness has crept into his face and down the bit of his chest revealed to the room by one of Liam’s tanks.

For a moment, Zayn watches him, pecking away at the screen. The line of his shoulders looks tight.

Taking a deep breath, he turns away to talk to Harry.

He doesn’t mention the thing with Niall, when they’re talking, doesn’t even know if it’s something he should mention.

“Don’t even know what the fuck it _is_ ,” Zayn reminds himself as he lays in bed that night, 2 hours on the phone with Harry and a new negotiation about not getting off while Harry’s not there that he’s not overly thrilled about, but is hoping will be worth it later.

Harry sounds good, is all that matters. And ze saved a copy of the song.

They hurt each other, but not beyond repair, never that.

Curling around Harry’s favorite stuffed bear, he inhales deep and dreams of foggy nothing.

He passes the next few days in a lightly overworked haze, with exam session almost upon them. The weekend crawls up on them, with Niall shouting a “Happy Friday gents!” over cereal and pastries.

“Ugh,” Zayn says.

Louis groans from his place resting on Niall’s shoulder. “Shut up, love.”

“Morning,” Liam says, sounding pained.

They all glance at him. He’s a grumpy gus, but not usually so much so, this early. Liam usually reaches peak grumpiness about 2 PM. Zayn knows, because it’s usually when Liam crawls huffily into a nap with him or Louis.

“Y’alright?” Niall asks, tearing into a chocolate croissant.

“No.”

Zayn reaches over a hand clumsily to rub at Liam’s back. “Sup?”

“I think I have Charlie horses in four places. One of them my ass.”

Louis bursts into laughter.

“Oh no,” Niall says, trying to keep a straight face.

Zayn laughs, but he also presses his hand firmer against Liam’s back.

Liam groans and arches up against his hand. One of his muscles gives a weird spasm against Zayn’s hand and he has to resist shuddering in disgust.

“Jeeze.”

Liam’s head is hanging a bit.

Almost inhaling the rest of his croissant, Niall looks at Liam closely. “You want me to –“

“Please,” Liam moans, pathetically.

“Ha, okay okay, Leem.” Niall gently moves Louis off, with a kiss to his temple and goes to set his plate in the sink. “Living room.”

Zayn rubs one more circle to Liam’s back and helps him push to his feet.

Niall takes Liam’s hand and pulls him gently into the living room and Zayn edges over just enough to watch.

They’re unbearably soft together. Niall always exceptionally considerate of Liam like this, aware of what it’s like to have an injury and to be scared of what it means, to need someone to put their hands on your hurt and be careful with it.

Besides that, Niall is good with the specifics of it. He knows to put Liam level on the exercise mat and mildly pillow his head. He knows which prescription lotion to grab from the communal medicine cabinet. Most of all, he knows how to listen to Liam’s responses, even when he’s silent.

Niall whispers reassurances to the back of Liam’s neck, smooths his large palms down Liam’s trapezoids with familiar ease. His thumbs dig in firmly and Liam makes a soft sound and turns liquidy.

Reasonable.

Zayn’s a mushy cloud just watching it.

“I need a nap,” Zayn says.

“It’s 9 AM,” Louis says, dry.

“Yep.”

The sound of Louis laughing around cereal follows him down the hall.

He really does need a nap though. Grading papers until 3 sounded like something out of teacher’s self-pity tirades before he actually became a TA. Drifting easily, he sinks back into the foggy dreams.

The world is brighter when he wakes.

The clock on the bedside blinks a happy 12:34 and he sighs into the smell of Harry’s pillow. He really ought to wash it, but it’s his bed and no one is in it, so what they don’t know won’t get Zayn made fun of.

When he toddles out of the room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Liam is in the kitchen, making lunch. He’s wearing sweatpants and one of Niall’s shirt-dresses. It’s the soft grey galaxy one that they all appreciate for the way Niall goes lovely in it, small and bold like a July sparkler.

“Nice,” Zayn croaks. For the view and also for the soft ease of Liam’s muscles.

Liam sways his hips a bit without turning around. “Love Nialler.”

Pressing his cheek against the door jamb for a second, Zayn smiles softly. “Same.”

Liam putters about with the salt for a bit and Zayn listens to _The_ _Pinkprint_ echo from Liam’s phone. The sun through the windows is catching on Niall’s succulents and Harry and Louis’ lima beans. Only at their house, would 20-something year olds in college keep prized plants from preschoolers on their window sills. Not that Zayn has any room to say anything. But his are at least on the back porch, where he can coo and be emotional in private.

Zayn checks the white board on the pantry door, but no one’s written anything except “DO NOT DRINK MILK IN FRIDGE !!!!!!”

Hm. Usually Louis and Niall manage to swing around for lunch on Fridays.

“Where’s Thing 1 and Thing 3?”

Liam laughs. “You know, it’s silly that we have actual numbers, right?”

“I know,” Zayn grins and hip checks him as he passes to flop in the far seat. Not technically his, but it has his lack of butt shape imprinted on it, so.

Liam shakes his head a bit, “They’re off at ACL.”

Zayn blinks.

“ACL?”

“Yeah, the massive music fest that fucks up our ability to attend anything or drive anywhere for 6 plus days in October every year? Zilker? Beer and a lot of weed? Terrible fake gold tattoos.”

“No, I know, fuck, Li,” Zayn rolls his eyes and promises to pinch Liam good later for laughing. “Didn’t realize it was this weekend, I guess.”

“You’ve had a lot going on,” Liam says, not unkindly.

“Yeah, guess so.”

It’s not a big deal or anything. Zayn twirls his phone, and hits the home button, but he doesn’t have any notifications.

He doesn’t wanna go really. It just might have been nice to be asked, or to realize that there was anything even worth being asked to. Course maybe, there’s more than one reason they didn’t clue in anyone else.

They’re always coupley, even when they’re not doing anything. It fills the air around them. They wear their togetherness as a favorite necklace, bright and attention grabbing around their necks.

Zayn can’t even say he’s ever been surprised by it.

Louis and Niall have always somehow just clicked. They like things in the ways that are just different enough not to be abrasive and just similar enough to be made into inside jokes; is probably the trick. Everyone probably has a story about running into them having a late night, has a story of them coming at something from a different angle, sweet even when prickly.

Zayn remembers early when they first moved in together, back when Louis was sometimes still figuring out all of their edges, testing the shape of all of them, one night when him and Louis had been playing sets before bed and got carried away.

Louis presses his prized limited edition of _A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out_ into the tried and true stereo in the corner.

It’s 3:20 AM.

“Juuuust until Camisado,” Louis slurs, to the look on Zayn’s face.

Right. The day Louis isn’t punk and emo down at heart is the day Zayn doesn’t have to pause the t.v. when Mufasa dies.

Zayn shrugs, though.

It won’t matter. They won’t even get to _Nails for Breakfast_ before Niall can’t stand it anymore.

He takes a moment to swig half his drink in remembrance of the day he didn’t know the tracklisting for a _Panic At the Disco!_ album.

Sure enough, right around the time Louis looks ready to hop on the coffee table and start pulling things off, Niall storms into the room.

“Y’all are the rudest fucking shits on the fucking planet,” He says, marching around Louis without even high fiving him for his dougie. “I have three tests tomorrow. Not one, not two, but three.” He jabs at the button of the stereo. _London Beckoned_ screeches off.

Louis rolls his eyes at Zayn. Zayn shakes his head and slumps back into the couch for the show.  Louis gives him a confused eyebrow and turns back to whine at Niall, “Sunshine, c’mo –“

Niall presses his hand to Louis’ chest and pushes, standing stock still. Zayn bites his lip so he doesn’t giggle.

“Louis,” Niall says, saccharine, “If I don’t get enough sleep to make it through 8 hours of multiple choice tomorrow, I will start collecting heads to present to my profs as excuse trophies. Now, shut the fuck up or go somewhere else.”

Louis gapes, “The fu –“

Niall covers Louis’ mouth and then kisses the back of his own hand. “Another noise and you will never have another Niall Breakfast Special.”

He drops his hand and Louis stays still like he’s been pinned to the floor.

Niall turns and pulls out the entire disc changer. He kisses the side of Louis’ blinking face and drops a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head, as he passes back out of the room.

“I love you both. Be fucking quiet,” Niall says, bland. His door shuts a few seconds later with a sharp click.

Zayn takes another swig of his drink, waits for it. Louis is still staring at the space in front of the stereo. The muscles in his neck look like they’re tensing up for one almighty release. Zayn almost opens his mouth to warn him not to – second time isn’t nearly as fun, when Louis spins around towards him, eyes bright, his muscles vibrating.

“Wow,” He crows, looking plastered and giddy and gorgeously turned on.

And there it is.

“Same,” Zayn says, wistful.

“Does he always –“

“Naw, only on like, big days. But it’s always –“ Zayn waves his hand a bit.

“Fucking hot,” Louis licks his lips, bouncing in place.

Zayn’s stomach sways, he runs his thumb over his chin. “Yeah.”

Louis eyes Zayn’s pants. Zayn smirks into his glass.

“Does he know?” Louis asks.

“Yeah. Pretty self-aware, our Niall is.”

“He okay if we –“ Louis tenses, gesturing a jerk between the two of them.

Zayn smiles, rueful. “Yeah he is, but I can’t. Promised Haz I’d wait out a few days till ze’s back. Can do you though, if you want, bro.”

“Hmm,” Louis taps a foot. “No, better not risk it. You’re a love though, thank you.” He comes over to bite down on Zayn’s neck just the way they both like.

Zayn groans, fists Louis’ shirt. “You’re awful.”

“I’m brilliant,” Louis corrects, his lips brushing against Zayn’s skin, sending tingles everywhere.

Zayn allows himself just one kiss sucked into the delt of Louis’ neck. The best spot, for how Louis goes all liquid and easy and intense in his arms. The best spot, for how Louis has said that it’s one of the places he’s okay with being touched, no matter the mood.

Zayn likes knowing the reliable spots on all of them.

“Thank you,” Louis says, into his ear, as he pulls back. He cranes his neck to look down at the blossoming hickie for a second and then flicks Zayn’s nipple as he gets up.

“Bastard.”

Louis laughs at him softly and heads down the hall, walking a little strange.

Zayn tilts his head back against the couch and waits, listening hard.

There’s a click and a lull. Then –

“Whu – the fuck, Lou!”

“Shut up, Liam. Be silent. We can’t wake up Niall or he’ll kill me and I’ll have to kill you,” Louis hisses. There’s a slight smacking sound. “Now get your cock out.”

There’s a strangled sound that dies off.

“- Fucking door,” someone shout-whispers. Zayn’s betting Liam.

The door clicks shut and there’s a mild thud.

Zayn shakes his head against the couch.

So yeah, music festivals do seem like a LouisAndNiall thing, no matter that they’re sometimes at opposite ends of the music spectrum. They always work stuff out.

Zayn says as much.

Liam shrugs his shoulders, “Agree. But, if you wanted to you know, try...”

“No,” Zayn says, drawing a small mindless pattern on the wood of the table, “Not really my place.”

Liam hums and fusses with seasoning for the eggs.

“Besides,” Zayn continues, “I’m not sure I could take 30 hours of Louis dragging both of us over hot coals for front row pop punk garbage.”

“Niall is his true love,” Liam nods, like he’s glad he wasn’t involved in any form.

Zayn laughs. Leaning his head into his palm, he makes himself relax into the soft kitsch of the room.  
“Tell me about your upcoming meet,” he says.

Liam straightens up and turns around to grin full bodied at him. “Well –“

Zayn listens closely to words he doesn’t really understand. If egg goes flying across the kitchen, then that’s not really his fault, is it. Besides, ceilings clean. Liam bounces.

Zayn has a tutor session with one of his undergrads at 4 and it takes predictably forever to explain basic research methods.

 _You would think_ , he complains to Shahid, who’s just gotten back stateside from some filming in London, _this would b basic material_

 _Someone didn’t know what stage directions were last week_ , he sends back.

Sometimes, Zayn despairs.

When he gets home, and his goodwill for the human race has been almost completely eradicated by the state of Austin drivers’ _everything_ , Louis and Niall are already back.

Harry Potter is playing from the living room and Zayn peeks in to see Liam and Niall are curled up on the couch. Niall looks rosy and a little damp and Liam is whispering against his hair, his arms curled easily around him. Head swaying a bit, Niall whispers something back and Liam’s hand smoothes along Niall’s side.

Zayn watches for a moment, feeling strange and distant.

He cuddles with Liam a lot and with Niall too, but he doesn’t know that it’s like this. Does Liam curl that intensely into him? Does Niall look that at ease with him? Does Zayn have a sharp intimacy with either of them, which sings ‘ _we_ ’ like Liam and Niall have together?

Has Zayn missed something?

There’s a loud spell on the t.v. and Niall looks up to see Zayn hovering in the doorway.

“Zayno!”

Zayn gives him a half smile, “Hey Niall. Liam.”

Liam smiles up at him, totally relaxed.

Zayn plops onto the couch for movie night and tries to order himself to be as relaxed.

Niall lists into his side a bit, “We got backstage today,” he crows, softly.

“Oh my gosh,” Liam says pulling back a bit to look down at Niall, “Really?”

“Yeah, we – “

“Neil,” Louis leans over top the couch, “Are you giving away our secrets again, huh!” He bites at the top of Niall’s head.

“Haha, Lou,” Niall shoves halfheartedly back at Louis’s face and then steals some of the popcorn.

“Aha! Attack!” Louis tickles at Niall’s sides and Liam laughs as Niall gasps.

Zayn fidgets with the stitching on the couch. He knows that’s one more story that won’t have any of the rest of them in it. Zayn doesn’t have a lot of those with Niall anymore, he realizes.

He eats the popcorn quietly, hand squeezing his own leg a little too hard to keep from reaching out for Niall.

 _When did you get so far away_ , he thinks.

Onscreen, Harry chokes out, “I just feel so _angry_ , all the time, and what if after everything I've been through, something's gone wrong inside me –“ and Zayn leans his head against Liam’s arm and tries to breathe evenly.

He lays in the dark that night, and tries not to imagine the shadowed spaces of the room as miles between him and the rest of them. The bed feels too big.

“Sunday,” Zayn reminds himself. Sunday, Sunday, and Harry will be back and Zayn can hug zir and say home and mean it.

Louis and Niall are gone again early the next day and Zayn sends a _??_ to Niall before he can think better of it.

 _Tacossss_ Niall sends back, then a few hours later, as Zayn is grumpily working his way through yet more essays, he sends a video of Louis with his eyes closed. His smile soft and deadly, singing loudly along, “You sprinkle stardust across my pillowcase, it’s like a moonbeam brushed across my face.” His voice is high and sweet, curling around the vowels like a parenthesis. Niall turns the camera to catch his own sun bolded happiness at the end of it, smile as wide as the sky, “Nights are good, and that’s the way it should beee,” trailing off into a laugh. _Echosmith !!!!!_

Zayn leans his head against the phone and breathes deep.

Louis and Niall could make the sun look dim.

He sends the video to Harry, knows Niall wouldn’t mind. Unable to think of a caption he just puts, _look._

300 words later, Harry texts back _I love them._

 _yeah,_ Zayn sends back. Harry will know.

Sunday blooms a little cooler than the past few weeks, clouds actually threatening on the horizon. A very tan Louis and a very toasty Niall are giggly at breakfast. Zayn guesses a little preemptively high, too.

He laughs softly and trails his hand along their joined ones as he heads out for grocery shopping.

“Have a good one, babes.”

“Deffo. Check my insta for lotsa updates, kay,” Niall sings at him.

Louis raises their arms and whoops.

Zayn leaves, smiling.

Family dinner tonight.

It feels like years since Harry has been home, too much drama layered on top of too much work and this is what traditions are for. Finding your place back when you’ve been spun around enough to lose the road markers.

 _I WANT MORE RICE KRIPSIES MORE MOREE_ , someone has written on the shopping list.

Zayn shakes his head and adds a few boxes to the cart.

Niall’s stuff is all done in neat lines, his writing curly and done by store order.

 _green beeeeans pls_ is at the bottom and Zayn adds fried onions automatically. If they’re going to have casserole, then Zayn’s going to make sure it’s as unhealthy as possible.

Plus it makes it easier to have to put organic power bars in the cart too.

He doesn’t go with Liam to pick up Harry, but it’s because he’s on a call to Waliyha and she’s crying about someone in her class calling her ugly and he’s leaning against the bathroom sink feeling like he could break through 12 walls to get to her and promise her that she’s so lovely and so strong and he misses her so much.

 _soz h :(_ he sends

 _hey, it’s okay, you told me. Hope she is okay x_ Harry sends back, just before ze boards.

By the time he gets off the phone, it’s 6. He wanders out to find Freckles, the neighborhood tabby, to sneak treats to and try and calm down. He’s in luck and finds her with a tom. They’re both fat and friendly and he feels a bit more like a human being after.

“Baby!” Harry slams open the door around 8.

Zayn drops the xbox controller and very, very calmly walks towards the doorway.

He and Harry collide hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Harry’s arms octopus around him, and then zir legs. His shirt pulls down enough to be a sharp line against his windpipe, but he just gripes Harry’s belt loop harder, balancing zir with one hand pressed hard to zir lower back.

It’s all a bit dramatic, but Zayn doesn’t give a shit.

“Love you, love you,” he repeats into Harry’s hair.

“So much, so much,” Harry presses back into his shoulder.

Zayn hears Liam laughing gently as he locks the door and leaves them in the hallway.

They don’t have sex, but Zayn stays in the bathroom while Harry showers and he traces over the lines of Harry’s tattoos, the curves of zir tummy and thighs. Harry keeps smiling into the water, sighing loud enough to echo. Occasionally ze flicks water at Zayn sitting on the toilet lid, one leg drawn up. Zayn allows it, because he knows and he’s feeling the same.

It’s not just the feeling of Harry orgasming that he misses, the joy of being responsible for that. He misses their intimacies. He misses the comfort that comes with years and trials and slipping on your ass in the bathtub and calling for someone and having them not make fun of it and just time and the way that’s worn their edges easy with each other.

He never thought that someone would feel comfortable with him watching as they shower. He never thought he’d feel comfortable with watching.

They come out to the kitchen holding hands and take turns kissing the side of Liam’s neck as he starts on baking the chicken.

“Hi you two,” Liam squeaks.

He’s breathing loud and pink cheeked by the time Louis and Niall straggle in, smelling like sweat and outdoors.

They do their own turn in the shower, separately, because Zayn knows Louis gets uncomfortable with anyone showering with him. While he waits for Louis to get done, Niall sits on the counter and regales them.

“Twenty-One Pilots were so good, great projection. I’m gonna grow up and marry Lion Babe. Walk the Moon _loves_ me. Chance the Rapper had the whole park in sync. We had a lot of pineapple cider.”

“Pineapple?” Harry cuts in.

Niall rolls his eyes. “We can try some.”

“Yay,” Harry smiles smugly against Liam’s neck.

Louis clears out of the bathroom with a wave of boiling air and a t-shirt thrown at Harry’s head. “We got you this, say you love us.”

It’s Harry’s Nate Ruess shirt, signed with love.

Ze tears up and launches at Louis, taking Zayn’s arm with zir.

They all narrowly avoid upending the pot of boiling rice.

“Fuck,” Zayn takes back his hand to sit at the table, partly to encourage them to eat as soon as possible before they spill it all and partly to be able to claim the chicken first.

They set the table well enough that Niall comes back and grins at them all, cooing.

“Awww, gosh. Well ain’t this just a pretty picture.”

“I am withering away of starvation,” Zayn tells him, though he does take a minute to follow the line of a bead of water as it slips down Niall’s neck.

Niall laughs and sits down.

Finally, they eat.

He doesn’t bother to keep track, but at some point in the meal, he kisses all of their cheeks, holds everyone’s hand or boops their nose or noses into their shoulders. They don’t quite play musical chairs, but there is music playing somewhere and they are playing with each other’s hands and in each other’s spaces.

“Love you!” someone says, in the middle of dessert.

“Love you,” they all chorus and Zayn feels full to bursting.

Eventually, Niall hisses when Harry presses one too many kisses to his redred shoulders. Pulling back with a frown, Harry walks out of the room. Ze comes back five minutes later with an actual cut up aloe plant.

They all stare at zir for a moment.

“Harry,” Niall warns.

“Niall.”

“Absolutely, beyond a doubt, no.”

Harry looks offended.

Zayn stifles his laughter with okra.

Later, when all of them are curled up on the couch and half off of it, Louis and Harry whisper for a bit and then both reach for Niall. He stares at them for a moment, biting at his lip and then hits his head against the couch, but he lets them gently tug off his shirt and slot him in between their legs. Harry pulls out a Mason jar filled with green goop and Niall wrinkles his nose, but he lets them rub it across his shoulders carefully.

Zayn watches the production, smiling.

Harry saves his nose for last, and rubs the aloe on with one finger, gently down the bridge.

Niall smiles small at zir.

Harry frowns back seriously and presses down on the squishy end of Niall’s nose until he giggles a bit.

“Stop Haz,” he laughs quietly, wrapping fingers around zir wrist.

Harry lets him pull zir wrist away and then leans down to press a kiss to Niall’s thumb.

Niall’s breath catches and Zayn’s echoes it. Harry smiles softly up between both of them.

Jeeze.

He jerks his eyes away only to find Louis looking at him, a frown twisting his forehead. He’s gone tense around Niall.

“What are we watching, Liam?” Zayn asks, too loudly.

He stays watching the t.v. the rest of the night, even when they switch to boring reruns of _House_. Everyone is sleepy and slipping together and into the couch cushions. Zayn watches Louis from the corner of his eyes, the careful way he keeps Liam between him and the rest of them.

 _There’s nothing wrong, Louis,_ he tries to will at him. _There’s nothing at all. There’s nothing._

Everyone heads off to bed at around 2 AM, Niall looking faintly green under the application of 2 more layers of aloe and Zayn feeling a little green watching Louis narrow his eyes in between him and Harry and back to Zayn himself.

Everyone’s door closes and Zayn orders himself to breathe, to calm down. He needs to stop imagining things where there aren’t.

Harry kisses down Zayn’s spine as they get ready for bed and Zayn lets himself relax into zir.

He and Harry have quiet sex, mindful that no one is asleep yet and that they don’t really want anything more than a stress release and the rush of good orgasm endorphins. Zayn appreciates that he has a partner that understands that.

He slips his hands into Harry’s lacey boxer briefs and really appreciates Harry in general.

“This is so vanilla,” Harry whispers a few minutes later, moving with the rhythm of Zayn’s hands.

“I can get your cuffs if you want,” Zayn offers, but just then Harry arches up against him and comes and he has to slap his hand over zir mouth.

Harry is smug and slippery finishing him off and he laughs into his pillow a bit, falling asleep.

The next day is taxing, a rush as Zayn bounces back and forth between projects and getting secondary advisor approval for his own project and trying to help someone understand the nature of antithesis doesn’t just mean being dramatic about two different things, celebrates Muharram quietly, with the rest of the staff, calls his family and _misses_.

Zayn gets in late.

Sighing as he waits for the garage door to lower, he plays with the edges of his keys. Finally, the clanging rhythm stops and Zayn pushes open the laundry room door – only to come face to face with Niall sitting on the washer. The dryer is going full pell next to him.

“Hello?” he asks, laughing.

“Heya,” Niall doesn’t look up from his laptop.

“What’s up?”

Niall shrugs, “Just doing some whites.”

“Mm,” Zayn closes the door and goes over to cuddle against Niall’s warmth shamelessly. Niall drops his arm down to give him room. He’s got an excel spreadsheet for something up. “Where are flopsy, mopsy and cottontail?”

Niall laughs and tilts his head towards the door to the kitchen. “In the living room, having a romp.”

Ah.

Meaning Louis and Harry are double teaming Liam. Harry’s asked him about it before, in that subtle difference of _“I don’t want to have sex with Louis, but I want to have sex with Liam and Louis can be there”_ and he’s agreed, laughing.

Course, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know how or when Harry talked with Liam or Louis about it. They didn’t talk about it with _him_. Not that they have to but -

Zayn rolls his eyes, partly at them, partly at himself, says, “Also just doing some whites, then.”

Niall grins against his temple, teeth feeling a bit strange.

It’s weird, but sometimes he still expects to see a line of metal across Niall’s teeth. He’d only known Niall with them for a bit, just a few months, but it feels like that Niall lays pressed like a peony in between the pages of Zayn’s journals. Soft and lasting and _tinted_ with nostalgia.

It’s funny to look up and see people have changed and then to step back and see that you’ve already accepted that change, without even realizing.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks.

“Hmm,” Niall makes a popping noise, “Me ‘n Lou voted for pizza. H voted for chicken masala.”

“So chicken masala, then?”

“If ze doesn’t fuck up the recipe, yeah.” Zayn rolls his eyes up to see Niall rolling his.

“Can’t be that hard, can it?” Zayn asks quietly.

“Not really,” Niall says, quieting too, “Pretty easy, actually.”

He inhales carefully, watching the way Niall traces the shape of Zayn’s face with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, too low.

“Yeah,” Niall whispers and jerks his eyes away and back down to the laptop screen. He starts typing but it’s disjointed and Zayn can just see the jerky way that his fingers are trembling.

He walks in the house, feeling a bit shaky himself, one hand pressed at his head like that will make things magically be clear and focused.

He passes by the living room with a glance, just to see Liam on all fours, head pulled back by Louis’ grip in his hair as their hips meet. Harry is under them, using the space Louis’ bared to bite down and pull blood to the surface of Liam’s neck like a ring of lipstick roses. There’s a cycle of soft cries as Louis moves into Liam who moves into Harry.

It’s like moving art.

Extremely, unbearably erotic moving art. Zayn’s whole body feels hot looking at them.

For a second, Zayn thinks of going in.

He knows how Louis would glance at him with a grin, raise an eyebrow with a challenge, how Liam and Harry would be burning and cajoling. But, he also knows that Niall would come in and know. And it’s all fine and dandy to be on your own with your orientation, but when it’s you and your orientation as the odd one out, it gets a bit stale.

Zayn tries to be mindful of that. Niall is Niall and he isn’t less and he would never say anything about feeling excluded.

No, Zayn thinks as he heads to take a cool shower, Niall would just hide out in the laundry room instead.

He tries to be soft with him at dinner. Winks and sings, “It’s not delivery, it’s masala,” at him.

The rest of them are sticky and sweaty. In Liam and Harry’s case, sweet and like well chewed taffy at the ends. In Louis’s case, sour and ramped up like someone’s still biting at the taffy of him.

He barks at Niall in the middle of dinner and Niall stutters over talking about his advanced econ class.

“Lay off, Lou,” Zayn says and steals his roll.

There’s something in the air between Louis and Niall that Zayn isn’t sure of, makes him frown over his toothbrush, getting ready for bed.

“Hey,” Harry leans into the door jam, “”Whatchu doing, string bean, c’mon.”

He looks back at Harry and laughs at the sloppy braid in zir hair, looking like ze gave up halfway through. The oversized t-shirt is one of Taylor’s from their date last summer to South Padre island.

Zayn kisses Harry’s cheek and follows zir to bed, happy to have zir home.

He dreams of giant noodles line dancing.

The blaring of the phone pulls him out of sleep, one ringing tendril at a time. He squints at it in his hand; _3:29 AM, Louis_ and flops it onto the side of his face so he can stay laying down.

“Is Niall okay?” Zayn says into it, drowsy and mushed.

“What? Why would that be your first question. What.”

Zayn shrugs into his pillow. “Everyone always calls Niall.”

There’s silence on the other end for a second, interspersed with snatches of muted conversations from wherever Louis’ out, on a school night, getting plastered. Zayn lets it sit for a moment before he says, quietly, “He’s an incredible guy, Lou.”

“I know that,” Louis snaps, then repeats it near silently, like a longing echo, “I know that.”

Zayn waits. Harry’s hair is curled over the edge of Zayn’s pillow, an array of curls highlighted by a slant of pale light from the window. He brushes a finger along the line of one. It’s soft and familiar like home.

Louis clears his throat a bit, more respectful than usual by half.

“Sup?” Zayn says, shaking himself a bit to not drift off.

“The bar’s closing.”

“Uhuh?”

“Paul won’t give me my keys.”

“Aha.”

“Shut up. I didn’t do anything.”

Zayn ignores that bit, because he knows Louis can’t help it. Just the same as he knows that Louis can’t say he needs a ride home, because that would be admitting something, that would be a call for help and that’s not what this is. Not as long as Lou can claim elsewise.

“Need a partner against the night?” Zayn asks, instead, hearing his voice still mushy with sleep.

There’s a soft sound and then Louis’ voice, closer and softer than before, “Yeah, partner.”

“Okie doke,” Zayn says as he starts climbing out of bed.

He goes carefully, avoiding Harry’s limbs and Harry’s general sleepy mess. By the time he’s extracted himself to the pile of clothes in the corner, the phone is blinking with a call ended notice. He shrugs on a t-shirt and jeans and grabs his keys with minimal clinking. A success, overall. Not even a hint of noise from Niall’s room, which is closest.

He stares at the door for a second, though. It is weird that Louis didn’t call him.

The jeep judders underneath his touch, jolted awake at an unusual hour and by Zayn’s sleep heavy hands.

Halsey is still on in the player, low, singing brokenly of dripping like a saturated sunrise, spilling like an overflowing sink, blue blue, blueblue.

He turns the CD louder, grins into his shoulder thinking of him and Louis and Liam going to Target on the release date. Louis still a little unsure with all of them, but determined to be front and center. He’d knocked over an entire display of John Wayne movies like someone was daring him. Liam looked shocked and then delighted, laughter bursting into soft crinkles from his eyes and mouth. And Zayn had decided anyone who announced themselves like they were descending a staircase in a grungy bar, anyone who could make Niall sigh so lightly and make Liam laugh so hard, was just fine in his books.

He’s humming when he gets to Paul’s, driving mostly on reflex.

Paul opens the door as he’s reaching for it, one hand on Louis’ shoulder.

“This yours?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yessir,” Zayn says, coughing to cover his laugh. Louis keeps trying to pull away from Paul’s hand, without acting like he’s pulling away. Zayn knows it’s not Louis being demi that makes him try to squirm away. It’s the whole concerned parent aura Paul’s wearing right now.

“Good,” Paul says and lets go of Louis.

Zayn receives the package, laughing in his head a bit at the thought.

“Night,” Paul says, pointedly, and shuts the door.

“We can come back tomorrow for your keys, yeah?” Zayn says, not bothering with the fact that it’ll probably be Louis and Niall who come back, or just Niall. Paul’s is even more in love with Niall than the regular human population.

Louis doesn’t say anything, but he stops at the corner, looking towards the river, “Can we, walk?”

Zayn shrugs. It might help sober Louis up before they go home, help him avoid the slow descent into This Is Too Drunk, lying in bed. “Sure.”

They walk south, picking their way quietly along the construction and the bright splotches on the roadways. Zayn kinda likes it, the strange, almost eerie quiet of a city sleeping. Feels like empty concrete echoes louder than it should. Eventually, Louis cuts them across Cesar Chavez without looking for cars. Zayn laughs a bit and follows.

They’re at the river now. South Congress, Zayn thinks, but he doesn’t know if the bridge itself has a name.

“Does this bridge have a name?” Zayn asks quietly, to the back of Louis’ shoulders.

“Dunno,” he says, stepping up to the ledge.

Niall would know the name of the bridge, if it even has one.

Zayn follows Louis up on the ledge, watches as Louis balances on the rung and then sees the thought form in his head about them climbing over, possible in the 4AM sweet spot.

“We’re gonna die,” Zayn says, pretty unbothered.

“Possibly,” Louis says, equally as dry. But he sets back down and hooks his feet under the railing, instead, worn supras squished by the space.

“Don’t know that this is really a bridge made for 4AM philosophical adventures,” Zayn tells Louis, even as he’s hoisting himself up onto the railing, too.

Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment. Blue lights have saturated the side of his face, darkened the curl of his ears, brightened the slope of his cheek. His face is made of contrasts. It makes him look impossible. Like some pop art creation, willed onto a questionable probably-South-Congress bridge late at night, meant just to make questions curl on Zayn’s tongue, slip down and slide off somewhere into the blue abyss beneath them.

“Naw, probably is,” Louis says, finally, soft like cornflower blue.

Zayn rubs his thumb along the peeling paint of the railing. He closes his eyes against a passing car’s headlights. “Whyssat?” Zayn murmurs, without opening his eyes.

There’s spots in his vision, but it’s like an overlay – the blue film of Louis still rolling strong before him. He wonders if it’s possible to know someone well enough to find the shape of them in the dark and then again in the light. In the spaces between sheets and in the night-random moments that overwhelm and daze. He thinks maybe so.

“This is where we came, one of the places we came, That Night.”

That Night.

The Night Louis and Niall became LouisandNiall. The Night something slotted into place in all of their lives. Zayn has always heard it capitalized, just now he ignores the layered flutter in his stomach it brings.

The film in front of his eyes skips, a slow burn of Niall curling into the corners.

“Yeah?” Zayn says, finally.

“Yeah.”

Zayn opens his eyes slowly, the lights shifting around him like waves, different densities jostling for space in the air around them. The road is sharp and murky. “And?”

Louis wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t want it picked at.

There’s a murmur just before a weight presses into his side, the softness of Louis’ t-shirt folding up against Zayn’s arm. Zayn twines his finger around a bit of the hem, easy as unlocking his front door.

“He told me about you guys.”

Zayn jerks his eyes up to Louis’, finds Louis’ closed. The skin is bunched, like Louis is clenching them. A small tremor works its way down Louis’ throat.

“Yeah?” Zayn nudges gently. He tucks his finger under Louis’ hem, feels the heat of Louis’ skin like he’s actually touching him.

Louis’ jaw clenches and something echoes it in Zayn’s stomach, just before Louis opens his eyes and glares at a streetlight. “Did I take something from you?”

“What?”

Louis kicks a something – a pebble, viciously and the crack of it is too loud in the dark. The movement tugs Zayn’s finger out of his shirt and Zayn’s hand falls free. He twists his fingers together. It feels too cold, now. The precise weight of the bridge upset by Louis’ energy.

“Did I?” Louis asks again, accusative, harsh like they’re in the middle of an argument.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, Louis,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “Are you that drun –“

“Niall,” Louis spits out.

“No, I’m _Zayn_.”

“No –”

“No what?”

Louis lets out a sound like a mutated scream and turns to face Zayn, just slightly too close in a way that raises warnings along the back of Zayn’s neck like a series of tremors before an earthquake.

“Did I take something from you and Niall?”

Zayn stares at Louis, “What? What the fuck are you –”

“From you and Niall,” Louis shouts, “What were you?”

“I don’t know what yo –”

Louis steps closer, coiled and smoothed lines, something boiling under the surface, his eyes gone cold, like the rattlesnakes Niall always tells horror stories about. “What were you and Niall going to be,” Louis says, “if I hadn’t come in and messed it up?”

Something hot spills down Zayn’s spine, “What.”

Louis’ face twists.

Zayn jerks away, starts towards the end of the bridge.

“Don’t you walk away, Malik!”

“Fuck you,” Zayn says, still walking.

Louis catches his arm, tugs him back sharply.

Zayn pulls his arm away, keeps walking, “Fuck off, Lou. You don’t get to –”

“I’m just asking,” Louis voice is all edges like rough shrapnel. “It’s a valid ques –”

“It fucking is not. What the fuck. You don’t get to judge us, you don’t get to demean it. And –“ Zayn swings around, “How dare you demean what you and Niall have.”

Louis stares at him, a statue of blue and black.

“What the hell, Lou?”

Something in the line of Louis’s body shakes, when he speaks, it’s too rough like they’ve been yelling for hours, “You love him.”

“ _Duh_.”

Louis shakes his head, “I mean when you look at him, you feel something, want something different.”

Zayn opens his mouth.

“I don’t mean something more, because what you have isn’t. What you have, Z, it’s so much. I never –“ Louis swallows hard and it shakes something deep in Zayn, because he looks like he’s going to cry and _Zayn_ feels like he wants to cry and what the fuck is - “I don’t. Never want to mess that up,” Louis finishes.

“You haven’t,” Zayn whispers. “I swear, Lou. And I don’t –”

“But you do.” Louis touches Zayn’s jacket.

“I –”

And Zayn’s thinking of the way that he feels when Niall shivers under his hands, he’s thinking of the way he wants to watch Harry press zir finger to his nose, he’s thinking of the unsteadiness of the past few weeks, rolling like a storm through his entire life, with an epicenter of NiallNiallNiall.

_No._

It’s not. It’s not possible.

He’s always been okay with Niall, it’s always just been _Niall_. And that’s all been good and reliable. Easy.

“What you want –“ Louis says, near silent.

“It’s not like that,” Zayn whispers.

“Okay,” Louis says, too agreeably.

Zayn looks at the line of his face, “Okay what?”

“It’s okay if you did want it to be like that.”

No, it’s not. It’s absolutely, completely, beyond a doubt _not_.

Louis edges his hand along Zayn’s arm and Zayn feels like all the bits of him are coming undone, all his rocks of balance, swept away in one fell tide.

Zayn clings to him, pushes his hands up Louis’ shirt and touches his overheated skin because he has to.

“Shh, you,” Louis’s nose tickles along Zayn’s temple.

“Shh, _you_ ,” Zayn bites back, muffled by the way his entire head is trying to tuck under Louis’ chin. His emotions feel like they’ve tripped up the stairs, only both his body and his heart have got the knee bruises to show for it, “Fucking asshole, you –”

“Shhhh,” Louis repeats, and this time, when he kisses the top of Zayn’s ear lightly, something slips within Zayn. One feather too many.

“I can’t,” Zayn fumbles, gritting his teeth against the hot rush of tears he can feel threatening. “I can’t do this. You can’t do this.” He shoves away from Louis.

“Zayn –”

“No, no,” Zayn turns around so he isn’t tempted by the softness in Louis’ face, “I’m not doing this. Fuck you for doing – for saying. I wasn’t –” he stops to take a deep breath. “I’m not doing this.”

He walks back towards the car, without looking back. Louis can either fucking follow or not.

Walking back takes ages, and no time at all, the streetlights blurring into the glass of buildings as Zayn focuses on his feet. Keys digging into his palms, he unlocks the jeep and looks up to see Louis on the other side of it, faint and not himself, like a leftover photocopy. Zayn looks at him for a moment and then reaches across to unlock the other door.

The drive back is too quiet. Louis still and Zayn holding onto the wheel too hard.

He watches the patterns of lights across the pavement, counts down the seconds till they change colors. Sometimes Zayn hates the way Austin always feels a little too casual. It’s a city but not in the stark and towering way that L.A. is or the determined and flowing way that San Fran is.

It makes him feel like nights like these are inevitable.

The garage door is a cacophony of noise at 4:30 AM, Louis seeming even more silent beside it, as he drifts into his room without looking back at Zayn.

Zayn grits his teeth and crawls back into bed, resolutely forcing his brain not to focus on anything that he can’t see in front of his own goddamn face, right here, right now. Harry is right where he left zir, cheek smushed resolutely into zir $40 dollar pillow and body akimbo. Sloppily, Zayn maneuvers his spaghetti limbs around zir.

Pasta isn’t a precise creature, Zayn thinks.

He squirms down into his side, and pulls the covers up close. The smell of Harry’s shampoo and Zayn’s shampoo and their body wash and a faint hint of candle wax wafts up like a wave. Just the exact same as usual. One of the few smells Zayn marks down wholeheartedly as _home_.

He freezes.

It seems ridiculous, the familiarity of it.

That he should leave this bed and return to it and it still smells exactly like always. Like Zayn doesn’t know Louis is staring at a ceiling two doors down, still pressing his tongue against this ache because he can’t let anything go without testing its edge.

He slides out of bed slowly, still manages to nearly take his charging cord out as a casualty. Zayn winces and glances back at Harry. Ze’s still out cold, though.

He breathes a quiet sigh and trip-tip-toes around the room back to the door. He eases it open again and then walks down the hall until he reaches the next door. There’s a faint light on in the room, which doesn’t mean anything.

Zayn turns the knob carefully, peeking in.

Liam is curled in the center of his bed, arms wrapped around his Batman pillow firmly. A smile flickers across Zayn’s face for a moment. He sighs quietly and edges forward into the room around the capri sun trash can.

He wakes Liam gently, presses a hand to his cheek like Liam does to him, “Liam.”

“Mm.”

“Li.”

“Mhhhhhm.”

“Bruce.”

Liam giggles sleepily into his pillow and Zayn can’t help smiling at him. Liam’s eyes peek open a second later, squinty and cute.

“Yeah, John?”

Zayn smiles for a second longer before he lets it go. He wishes he could leave Liam here, ignore the reality of the night, make it all okay by waking up to a new sun. But – but Louis is still probably picking at it, alone. “Louis needs you.”

Liam sits up instantly, blankets shuffling off his shoulders.

“Is he –”

“He’s okay,” Zayn winces, “Or you know. He’s. Fine, just.”

Liam frowns at him.

Zayn offers a vague shrug and a wobbly hand movement. If his limbs are spaghetti, his heart is a sloppy tomato, overcooked and strange to the touch.

 “Are you okay?” Liam asks quiet, focusing in on Zayn’s face for a moment.

“I have Harry.”

Liam’s lips curl at the non-answer of that.

“Okay,” he says, anyway.

Zayn closes his eyes for a second, relief sharp, opens them again to find Liam’s face so he can press a kiss to Liam’s cheek, “Thank you, love you, sorry.”

Liam noses along Zayn’s cheek, kisses the edge of his hairline, “S’okay, love you, go sleep.”

Zayn nods limply and goes.

Harry is where he left zir.

Zayn curls around zir and wills himself to sleep.

 _I don’t_ , he thinks at himself. _You don’t, you don’t and you can’t._

_Don’t think about it._

Morning dawns grey and hungover with night.

Breakfast walks that edge of too quiet and Zayn can’t deal with it. He heads out for his classes early and only halfheartedly answers texts from Harry and the rest of the world. Resolutely, he refuses to think about Louis or last night or anything having to do with blue or bridges or bars.

Instead, he works.

Occasionally, he watches his reflection in the mirror of his laptop in the library and tugs at his hair. He should probably get it cut. He won the bun competition and Harry has moved from annoyed to accepting back to prissy about it.

But there’s something he likes about it, the way the length settles something in him.

 _Pretty_ , he thinks.

His stomach clenches happily. He’s been called it before, but never in a way that made him feel good about it.

This is different, this is his.

Pulling the left side back behind his ear he bites at his lip. It could look very rokker; the earrings and the tats. It’s just missing something.

He sighs and lets go of his hair. _He’s_ just missing something, maybe.

Someone thumps down their books hard on the table and he jumps.

“Sorry,” they grin at him, spreading out a couple of bright textbooks on astronomy, a folder with a fluorescent galaxy print. Zayn shakes his head at it and pulls out his phone to text Niall – _Niall_.

He drops it like a hot coal back into his bag and shoves his face back into his work.

Office hours pass in a bit of a blur.

Wednesday follows the same pattern, and Thursday. Zayn goes on dates with Harry, hits up a party that Taylor throws for half-Halloween, whatever that means, and smiles as Taylor and Harry curl over her oven, arguing about nutmeg percentages. They’re matchy in polka dot dresses and Zayn thinks of Niall and Liam, off at a movie screening for the film department with matching hats and boots, if their instagrams are anything to go by.

He wonders what Louis is doing.

Zayn leaves Harry with Taylor and drives back home himself, arguing a headache. They smile at him, a little creepy with the doughy remains of gingerbread people crushed around them.

Zayn waves, and scoots.

Back home, he looks at the sight of Louis’ car in the driveway and drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a minute, then goes in. He finds Louis in the living room, FIFA on and Louis’ eyes bagged and weary as he glares from Zayn back to the t.v. Zayn squirrels himself into the couch.

“Let’s fuck,” he suggests, toes shoved under the warmth of Louis’ thigh.

Louis looks at him. “We’re still fighting.”

From anyone else, it would sound like a no.

Zayn shrugs enough for his shirt to slip down his shoulder a bit. Louis’ eyes trail down the line of Zayn’s collar and then back up.

“Fine,” Louis says and shoves the controller to the floor, “You’re on the bottom.”

Zayn shrugs again. That’s fine with him. He can top from wherever.

Then, Louis twists on the couch and pulls Zayn’s legs apart to fit himself in between them. He slots his fingers carefully around Zayn’s neck and guides his head back, with a thumb hooked under his jaw. Zayn’s pulse jumps.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Louis says, quiet.

He pulls his hand away from Zayn’s neck and Zayn’s body can’t figure out if it’s happy about that or not. Breathplay has to be done carefully, and they’re nowhere near prepped for it, he knows that. But – But Louis always makes him a little reckless.

Louis grabs his wrists and drapes his arms carefully back down behind the arm of the couch.

Zayn’s breath goes rough.

“Stay,” Louis orders.

A shiver works its way down Zayn’s spine.

He stays.

Louis looks at him for a second, face masked into a thoughtful expression and then slides his arms under Zayn’s legs and presses his palms to Zayn’s stomach. His shirt has ridden up and he’s so sensitive to the haphazard touch of Louis’ palms, it almost tingles.

Zayn watches down his body as Louis adjusts better on the couch and then reaches nonchalantly for Zayn’s button and fly.

A fist clenches in Zayn’s stomach and he can see his own muscles visibly ripple.

Louis’ eyes flicker up once and then back down. He thumbs open the button of Zayn’s jeans and then jerks down the zipper.

“Careful,” Zayn says, pointedly.

Louis ignores him and tucks his fingers in the waistband of Zayn’s boxers to pull them down quick, too. Zayn’s into this, into Louis like always and he’s already a little chubbed up. The sudden drag of fabric, not careful at all, makes his hips jerk up and heat pulse like a heartbeat through his body.

There’s a small sound from Louis like satisfaction and he reaches out to Zayn’s dick and starts jerking him off. In Louis Speed, it’s not that unusual, 0-to-Handjob in nothing flat.

Louis thumbs at the base of his dick without even looking up at Zayn’s face.

His movements are harsh and too firm against the dry slide of skin on skin. Zayn shudders with it, clenching his hands together, still hung over the couch as he rides that edge of toomuchpain, toosoon.

It occurs to him that Louis is still propped over him, waist barely touching Zayn’s thighs spread on the couch and other hand busy jerking himself off without Zayn being able to even see. If this is sex with the two of them as participants at all, then it’s walking the line of someone else’s hand as masturbatory aid.

It’s Zayn dick and Louis. Not Zayn and Louis.

Suddenly, it’s not fun.

They’re only touching where Louis’ rough hand is working his dick, rote and intense and impersonal. It’s not insensitive, but it feels like his dick is the only thing that matters to Louis, not him. It’s – it’s making something flare uncomfortable and revolted in the back of Zayn’s throat. It feels like it’s happening to someone else, like it isn’t his body.

Or – he doesn’t want it to be.

He stares at Louis’ hand, the veiny skin of his dick, the straggly, wires of curls around the base.

His stomach clenches with a wave of disgust.

“Red,” he gasps.

Red. _Red_ , he needs out.

Louis’ hand pulls away like it’s been burned.

“Zayn,” Louis curls over him without touching, looking panicked. “Zayn?”

“I – “ Zayn’s still gasping, trying to understand the lingering arousal mixing with this sharp overwhelming tangy bitterness under his tongue. He wants to curl up. He wants to get rid of his entire body.

“Z, check in. Where are you?”

Louis is still propped above him, hovering, voice gone high and stressed.

“I need,” Zayn says, shaky. He pulls his arms back from over the couch arm, sluggish as if waking up from 200 years of REM.

The air feels like soup.

“Zayn? You need what?” Louis’ hands flutter around him, “Did you take anything, love? Have you had water today?”

“No I’m –“

“No?”

“Not no, no. I didn’t. I have. I need to – “ Zayn heaves in a breath and fumbles with tucking his softening dick away, his boxers into his pants. He hesitates before touching his own skin, stomach twisting with that same ugliness.

 _It’s_ your own _dick_ , he orders himself.

He shudders and shakily does it.

He can’t get the zipper up.

“Zayn –“

Louis’ arms are shaking beside him. Worry like a cloud swarming above them.

“Shh,” Zayn says, “I just – shh.”

Louis quiets, but his movements grow, anxious and crowding.

Zayn needs to get away.

He tips himself off of the couch while curling away, trying not to touch any part of Louis with any part of himself. Their clothes catch and tug.

“Love,” Louis says, broken and nearly silent.

A hook burns in Zayn’s spine as he stumbles out of the living room.

He leaves Louis, alone and sprawled on the couch.

His bed is cold and dark behind the locked door, under the shelter of Maura’s thickest quilt he steals from the linen closet.

“You’re okay,” he tells himself, “You’re fine.”

Right.

He stares at the shaky blurs of his fingers for a long time past when dinner is called, when Harry comes frowning to curl up with him, before sleep trudges in after zir and takes him willingly into the blankness. 

Friday, the sky rolls in dark and Zayn stares at it through the window, as he brushes his teeth. He avoids the mirror like it’s pointing a finger at him. There’s something lingering inside of it.

Louis is probably laughing in the third row of Child Development right now. Or he would be, usually. Maybe Zayn’s made him go quiet.

Zayn closes his eyes and accepts the ache in his shoulders.

If Harry’s rising eyebrows and increasingly frizzy hair is anything to go by – ze isn’t oblivious to the tension. Ze and Niall have taken to whispering in the corners of rooms, both of their faces unhappy. Seeing them together hurts something low in Zayn.

He hates that they’re so closely wound that one thing off with any two of them ripples across the rest of them.

He calls home, that afternoon, tucked away in the living room loveseat while everyone else is out and Harry is doing something with phone calls to foundation members.

His dad and mom are going on a date later and he grins into his phone, ribs them gently for it while Doniya helps in the background. Zayn promises next time he’s in town to bring back more red hots for Safaa, “And a few _extra_ , yeah!” she adds and he laughs, agrees. Jawaad is back home from Philly this week and it pangs sad to Zayn. He didn’t even know.

He takes the time to ask about his stats course.

“You don’t wanna know,” Jawaad mutters darkly.

Zayn laughs.

They’re talking about how things have changed even since last time they were back home, how the new halal place a few streets down is “covered in orange spider webs right now. Walked face fucking first into three of them.”

“Halloween,” Zayn commiserates, even as he grins.

There’s a shadow over Zayn’s lap and Harry plops down heavily.

“Ugh,” he grunts and pulls the phone a bit away from his ear, hissing, “Harry, get off.”

“I’m trying,” Harry whispers, and bites at Zayn’s arm.

“No, not – Sorry J, one sec,” He looks properly at Harry and then blinks a bit. Zayn didn’t know they made lace that see through with that much glitter. Fuck’s sake.

“C’mon, get your cock out,” Harry wiggles in his lap and that’s just. Not what he wants. An echo of that sickness from earlier in the week with Lou rumbles in his stomach.

Zayn grits his teeth and mutters into the phone, “I’ll call you back, Jawaad.”

Jawaad cackles like he heard Harry across the line and Zayn drops the phone onto the couch beside them. He clenches his fists to stop from reflexively putting his hands on Harry’s hips.

“What the hell, Harry. That was my cousin.”

Ze shrugs and rocks a bit more against Zayn’s lap. “C’mon, he’s a guy he gets it.”

Zayn’s nails dig into his skin. “What does that mean,” he says, too sharp.

“You all are like, constantly on about your cocks,” Harry crosses zir arms. “Get real.”

“I,” Zayn focuses on the crinkly edge of Harry’s collar, aware that this is rapidly turning too sour to recover from, but not sure how to stop it, “am not.”

“So, you don’t like it when I come up to you in public and ask for it?” Ze leans forward, eyes a too-sharp green, “When I ask specifically for your dick?”

Fucking Harry.

Fucking Harry and zir too blunt words and too sharp eyes under layers of sweet, sweet charm. Fucking Harry and zir entire way of sloshing everything up in Zayn and turning him upside down with a flick of the wrist.

He likes it, but he doesn’t like how it’s making him feel right now.

“This is different.”

“So, you don’t want me to do that anymore?”

Zayn hits the back of his head against the loveseat cushion. “That’s not what I said, Harry.”

Harry rolls zir eyes and huffs mightily. “Boys. Fucking incredible.”

Zayn pushes zir off his lap, too rough. Ze stumbles back with a grunt.

“I’m not –“ Zayn starts and then stutters to a stop. _A boy_.

He is a boy. He _is_ a boy.

What the fuck.

 _What_ -

“You are not better than other guys just because you’re with a trans person, Zayn,” Harry says, voice twisted.

It hits Zayn in the chest.

“What.”

_What is happening._

“That is not what I – I would never have, Haz. I’m sorr– “

“Right, then what were you gonna say then, huh?” Harry’s fists are clenched tight, the bright fushia of nails just visible like a blood red sun on the horizon.

“I –“

Zayn keeps focusing on things in too-focused details.

The plate of chips left on the coffee table. A football stuck into the beanbag. Their carefully arranged and argued over shelves, steady and firm against the back wall.

Zayn feels dizzy.

“S’what I thought,” and now Harry is crying furiously. “You’re such a shit, like what the fuck. I’m just me and you’re just all over the place lately, trying to rack up asshole points.”

Zayn’s anger flares, wobbly in his arms, “I’m not trying to fuck anything up. This isn’t all my fault.”

“Then, why are you fighting with Louis?”

“I’m not your parent, Harry,” Zayn scoffs. “I can fight with other members of the household.”

“Not when it affects us all!”

“We all fight,” Zayn shouts back. “What the hell do you think we’re doing right now? Or do you need an explanation for that, too?”

“Fuck off, Zayn,” Harry says, striding out of the room.

“Fuck off, Harry,” he says back, not at all watching zir go.

The room echoes hard in Zayn’s ears. After a moment of it, he drops his head to his hands and holds on. The world still feels like a roller coaster.

What.

The fuck.

He pulls his hands down to stare at them for a moment. Pen mark from grading those exams, scar on the left index finger from reaching across the stove at 7, the mandala he’d fallen in love with from first glance on his wrist, ink splatter on the inside of the other.

They’re shaking.

He has to get out of here.

Too fast to avoid bumping his toes on corners, he digs a pair of beaten up trainers out from the wall closet to shove on and grabs his keys out of the dresser bowl. The door swings shut loudly.

He runs.

The world turns to smears that he can’t focus on anymore. He breathes deep and pushes faster.

Five minutes later, the stitch in his side is threatening to split him in half. He crouches a bit, wheezing.

It’s just what he needs.

He breathes steadily until he can barely feel the ache, staring at a perfect fallen leaf, tucked into someone’s gate.

Then, he runs again.

Stops. Runs. Stops.

He goes steadily, without letting himself focus on where his feet are turning or who stares at him.

By the time he stops, his legs have turned to lead and he’s almost tripped 3 times in about as many minutes. He breathes unevenly and leans back against a wire fence, feeling the metal cut sharply into his back.

He watches the traffic for a moment, as people pass in front of him.

If he wasn’t worn and devoting all his energy to the next breath, just the next breath, he thinks he could cry.

The walk back is long.

He stops finally, down the road from their place, on Mrs. Martin’s lawn bench. Cookie barks from the backyard happily, tail wagging furiously.

He gives a small smile and waves to her.

The sweat’s cooled tacky on his skin and the sky has started to turn greyscale for the night. He knows he needs to get home.

He still doesn’t know what’s going on, with him or with them.

Zayn knows they fight a lot more than most couples anyway, but. They’re fighting even more than usual lately. The air between them feels like it’s gone static-y and prone to shocking when they reach out to each other.

Zayn wonders if it’s him.

If whatever is lodged inside his throat hasn’t worked its way to his fingertips to spread to everything he touches.

But Harry’s been volatile, too. Nit-picking and taciturn, sliding smooth into the rhythm of them, only to be angry with the tempo.

“God,” he whispers, fingers pressed to the growing ache in his temple. His whole body aches.

The light in Mrs. Martin’s yard comes on, a brilliant blue for a moment, as if the world has been dunked underwater for an instant. Zayn watches it distantly, vision unfocused.

He just wants them to be steady. The back and forth is so tiring, even normally.

But now, now it’s like Zayn doesn’t have anything left over, wrangling with this thing inside of his mirror, this thing inside of his heart, and this thing between them.

“I’m just one person,” Zayn says, quietly.

Even quieter, in the quiet of his ribs, where no one can hear it and steal it away, he thinks he wishes it wasn’t just the one of him and the one of Harry. It’s happening more and more, that Zayn gets this sense that there’s something off about their balance, that they’re missing something – _someone_.

Zayn feels sick with it, feels sick with the sudden feeling that there should be another, or more, should be a temper to their coldhot.

They’ve already got so many. He doesn’t know why it isn’t enough. Doesn’t know why he can’t just be fucking happy with what he has.

The sky is a blurry black.

Fingers scrubbing at his eyes, he gets up. Might as well. He doesn’t have anything much to lose.

Their driveway is empty, which means Liam, Louis and Niall aren’t back yet. They’re probably out, maybe at Paul’s and any other night Zayn would be aching to join them.

Tonight, Harry is framed in the light from the kitchen and Zayn is tired.

He calls softly as he enters, “Harry?”

There’s a clang and then a throat clearing, “Kitchen,” Harry calls back, low.

Keys in the bowl, shoes in the closet, toe stub on the floor divider.

He comes into the kitchen to see Harry, curls sloppy in a half-bun and one of Liam’s flannels on over glaring highlighter-yellow athletic shorts.

Ze is working on a charcoal piece over the sink because ze always says it “just cleans better. At least, Niall says so.” It’s a mess of lines and crosshatching.

It looks sad.

“I tried texting but...” Harry shrugs and waves the charcoal a bit.

“Didn’t have my phone,” Zayn says, and his voice cracks hard.

Harry winces and reaches over on the counter to grab a bottle of water. “Idiot,” ze shoves it at him.

Zayn takes it, suddenly dying of thirst. He drinks it down carefully, though, all too aware of what happens when any of them overwork themselves and try and hydrate too fast. He forces himself to stop halfway through, panting even with that.

Harry’s watching him, fingers white tinged on zir charcoal stick.

“You’ll break it,” he says, lightly, as he plays with the bottle cap.

Heaving a deep breath, Harry closes zir eyes and then places the charcoal on the nearby paper towels. Ze turns around to pull the canvas off the sink and wash zir hands. Zayn hands zir the towel from the table and ze dries zir hands quietly.

“Are we gonna talk about it, finally?” Harry asks.

Zayn closes his eyes for a beat and then swallows, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. Sighing, ze puts down the towel, “You wanna shower?”

“Yeah – please.”

Harry nods again.

“You can, if you wanna come with?” Zayn fidgets with the water bottle, takes another sip, “If you don’t have anything else, you know.”

Harry’s hand touches his fingers lightly, nails popping against both of their skin. Zayn looks up to see zir tucking curls behind zir ear, face soft, “I don’t have anything else, Zayn. Probably be a long talk, too. And I need to shave my legs anyway.” Ze smiles, “Two birds.”

“Okay,” Zayn breathes deep.

They’re careful with each other in the bathroom, tentative and mindful, if not precise. Zayn avoids looking in the mirror like he’s been doing the past few days and Harry notes it with a furrowed brow.

He showers slowly, muscles crying out under the heat. Harry sits on the counter and does something to the frizz in zir hair, muttering under zir breath just loud enough to be a hum above the air vent.

It’s more comforting than zir talking directly at him would be. The sound helping him turn everything rote and habitual in a good way. Which, when Zayn thinks about it, is probably why ze did it. He swallows hard, leaning his temple against the cool of the tile for a second.

He doesn’t linger long, scrubbing the shampoo out of his hair and tipping himself into the towel pulled from the rack. Harry hits the air vent to off and eases around him to sit on the edge of the tub.

The towel feels rough against Zayn’s head, sharp against his chest.

Water splashes loud in the enclosed tiles. Harry sets up zir equipment steadily around zir.

Zayn takes a deep breath and starts them off. “You were wondering what Louis said to me, earlier.”

Harry fumbles the shaving cream a little bit and then inhales and exhales once. “Yeah, I was,” ze says.

Zayn looks at Harry.

Ze looks back at him, calm, hair a bushel of curls and eyes bright and focused under them.

“He told me that. That I wanted to date Niall,” Zayn says, looking down at his hands, “Or to be romantic or something else other than what we are.”

Harry is quiet and still in Zayn’s peripheral vision. Zayn twists his hands together.

“What you are,” ze says, eventually.

“What?” Zayn looks up.

Balancing on the tub better, Harry reaches down and starts shaving. “Do you even know what you are? Do any of us know what we are?”

Zayn opens his mouth – and then closes it.

They’re all friends. But they’re also probably more, and also, something else, _other_. Zayn wouldn’t put any of them in the same box as any other ‘friends’. Not even Danny or Ant.

“No,” he says, honestly.

“Okay,” Harry says, “Because I was starting to feel like the only one fucking confused.” Ze sounds a little prissy. Zayn laughs quietly. Because this is how his partner is reacting to zir love of zir life possibly wanting to fuck up one of the most stable and important relationships they have: a little prissy at the idea not knowing something tangentially related.

“No, not the only one.”

“Good.”

Harry swishes the razor in the water loudly.

Zayn watches as Harry shaves carefully around zir kneecap, the precise twists and turns like Harry’s hand with a pastel or a paintbrush. Harry’s body is zir canvas in more ways than one, Zayn realizes. It’s not just tattoos and sharpies.

“Is he right?”

 _Maybe_.

Zayn takes another deep breath. “I want Niall things.”

“You have Niall things,” Harry says reasonably, “We all have Niall things. Niall things are well organized and squishy. We love them.”

“No, I know I just – I want,” Zayn swallows against the prickle of tears in the back of his throat. “I want _me and Niall_ things.” _You and me and Niall things,_ Zayn thinks, pulling at his lip. _I want us three._

Harry shaves the rest of zir leg in one stroke and dips it back into the water. Zayn watches the hair swirl around.

“Things like what things?” Harry’s voice is careful.

“I don’t know,” Zayn whispers.

“Really?”

A flash of anger curls around Zayn.

“Really. What do you think, I like being confused and fucking everything up?”

Harry smears a dollop of shaving cream on Zayn’s leg. Ze glances up and when Zayn doesn’t say anything, starts shaving a line down his calf. Zayn’s anger swirls away like a drain stopper pulled sharply, leaving a vacuum to pull in something strange and heavy in his chest in its place.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Harry says, softly, but Zayn hardly hears it.

Harry shaves his leg gently and Zayn watches, breathlessly.

It’s not like they’ve never done this before. Half of Zayn’s tattoos are ridiculous home ones, scratched into his skin under Harry’s careful paint-stained hands.

But it’s never been like this. Zayn’s never had the urge to ask Harry how to do it or why ze goes with the direction of the hair instead of against it. He’s never wanted to suddenly just get rid of it all, all the hairy splotches ripped off like band-aids. He thinks of the smoothness of Harry’s legs and chin with a sudden longing.

 _Liam does it_ , Zayn says to himself, wistful. _I could do it._

“Z? You okay?” Harry’s hands are still on his leg, one rubbing gently on the just shaved patch on his thigh. The texture is unreal.

“I’m –” Zayn clears his throat but it doesn’t seem to help, “feeling weird.”

“Bad weird?”

“No.” No, not bad.

“You want me to keep going?”

 _Yes_.

“Is it okay if you do?” Zayn asks, voice small. It’s taking Harry a lot more, a lot longer with his and he knows Harry buys organic cream because it doesn’t make zir skin react badly. Plus, why – why would he even need –

“Yes,” Harry says, firmly.

“Okay.”

Harry is careful with the shaving, precise with zir tongue between zir teeth in a way Zayn realizes is probably hard won. Harry’s probably one of the least coordinated people he’s ever met. Ze finishes with one leg and moves onto the next, with a glance up at Zayn for a second. He nods and ze moves faster this time, like ze’s got the hang of it better.

He watches.

“Earlier this week,” Zayn says, throat scratchy, “I was having sex with Louis and something happened.”

“Something like this?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, voice barely a whisper. “Only, not good.”

“Hmm.”

Harry finishes shaving his leg carefully.

Zayn marvels down at the look of them, of the lack of hair. He didn’t think it would be that different, but it feels like _more_. Feels light in an unreasonable way.

It’s all so confusing.

“It’s so confusing,” Zayn says out loud.

“What’s confusing?” Harry asks softly, as ze cleans off the razor.

“Everything,” Zayn whispers. “Everything is. Why do I feel like this? Why did I think that I wasn’t a boy? What is this? Why did Louis say that about Niall? Why did it feel true? Why am I fucking everything up – “ he chokes himself off.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, touching his shoulder. “Hey,” he lets zir pull him around. Zir hand goes to his cheeks and he realizes he’s crying.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Harry’s thumbs brush away his tears. “Okay, okay.”

“S’not okay.”

Harry bends down a bit to catch his gaze, zir eyes bright and large and deep enough for Zayn to fall into heart-first like he did back then, has done every day since.

“We’re gonna make it okay, baby.”

Zayn’s eyes sting. “How?”

Harry leans forward to press their foreheads together.

“We’re gonna answer it, okay. We’re gonna figure it out,” ze says, “You know I love a challenge.”

“We?” Zayn asks, hates the weak wobble of his voice.

Harry kisses his cheek, infinitely gentle. “I’m not going anywhere, okay. I’m staying right here with you.”

 _Promise me_ , Zayn wants to demand. _Promise me you’re staying. Don’t go away again. Please stay with me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone with myself._

But he can’t. He knows he can’t make zir. Knows he shouldn’t.

“I miss you so much,” He says, instead, feels more tears rush hotly down his cheeks.

“Oh, babe,” Harry says softly.

He hates feeling like the weak one with them.

But, he holds onto Niall’s shirt on Harry’s shoulders and cries, and feels like he needs to be weak for a while. Like he’s needed to, for a long while.

Harry guides them both into bed gently, pulling up the drain and shutting off the lights.

“We still need to –“ They haven’t talked about half the things they needed to, meant to. Zayn just came in and dropped his emotions on Harry’s lap.

“We will,” Harry mutters and pulls off the wet towel around Zayn’s hips and nudges him towards bed. He goes, flopping across the blankets like his limbs have turned to stone. “Later. You’re exhausted.”

“You’re exhausted,” Zayn mumbles back, but he’s already drifting.

He dreams of nothing, of a heavy blanket and a vast space.

 

 

The sun is soft, on his cheek.

There’s someone murmuring beside him. Zayn reaches out a hand and hits the side of Harry’s hip. He brushes his thumb against the texture of zir stretch marks, the soft slide of them familiar and comforting.

The voice pauses, then continues. A hand drops to the nape of his neck.

“...just a week, Jeff, please. A few days. A day. An hour.”

Zayn frowns fuzzily into the sheets, he’s drifting a little, with the hand strokes. He can tell by the way he blinks one moment and then Harry is lying back down beside him, their hair tangled like lovers in the space between their pillows.

“Hey,” he says this time.

“Hey.”

Harry is looking at him, easy as any other morning in the past few years they’ve been together. Not judging.

“Breakfast?” Zayn says, voice hoarse.

Harry laughs and leans over to zir bedside table, “You and Niall, honestly.” And then freezes.

Zayn smiles, rueful and reaches out a hand to rub his knuckles against zir spine, “S’fine, H.”

Zir body relaxes under his hands and Harry leans back with a plate of fruit and toast. Zayn eats, smiling at the taste of blueberry jam.

Harry notices. Ze rubs zir nose against his shoulder, “S’gross, but you like it.”

“Thank you, Haz,” Zayn says, leaning his head against zirs for a minute.

Harry drinks a smoothie, as Zayn eats and sips at the water on the bedside. He doesn’t really want it, but he has a feeling from the way that the door is shut and locked, the unusually low noises of the rest of the house, that a talk is imminent on the horizon.

Finishing with the reddest strawberry, he puts the plate on the table on his bedside.

Harry watches him, leaning over to put zir smoothie tumbler on zirs.

Zayn nudges his way back down to the pillows, and twists his fingers in the sheets.

“C’mere?” he whispers.

Harry sighs a soft, “Of course,” and snuggles in so close Zayn has to laugh a little bit, nose pressed to Harry’s hair and Harry’s arms around him, leg through his. The texture of their bare skin together is something else, something that makes Zayn’s breath catch and his stomach feel happy. Like being at the top of a hill and looking down at the world.

They still fit together like always.

It never matters how long Harry is gone, or how jumbled Zayn is, they fit together in a way that makes Zayn’s chest lax. He presses his fingers to the ridges of Harry’s ribs. His thumb settles at the line of the moth’s delicate wing, like always. Harry’s hand trails along his side to settle over his hip, thumb to the heart like an echo.

Zayn smiles against his pillow and lets some of the tension in his shoulders float away.

He’s safe here.

“So,” Harry says quietly, “you and Niall.”

“More like, just me about Niall.” His mouth twists, rueful.

Harry pauses.

Then, ze says, “You and Niall.”

Heat floats up to Zayn’s cheeks. “Stop.”

Harry purses zir lips.

Zayn takes a deep breath. “What I feel about Niall – I don’t know. But it’s different. Not not-romantic.” Zayn closes his eyes against the words.

“ _Is_ it romantic?” Harry doesn’t sound bothered.

“Maybe?”

“Okay.”

Zayn clenches his eyelids tighter, “Is it okay?”

“Zee,” Harry says, quiet and close.

“What.” Worry feels like a trapped moth, fluttering against the cage of his spine.

“It is okay.”

“Why is it okay?” Zayn asks, a bubble of ridiculous frustration rising in his throat. “Like why would you be alright with that, H?”

“You can’t help who you fall in love with, Zayn, you know that,” Harry says, cajoling, voice too sweet.

He pulls open his eyes to look at zir. In the sprinkled sun, tattoos like moving art, ze is like something out of a storybook of dreams, like something visceral and real and thriving. A muscle twitches in zir chest. Zayn follows it up to zir eyes, the starkness of them cold against the warmth of zir words, like something pent up and struggling.

An idea flickers in Zayn’s head.

“Do _you_ know that?”

Harry flinches.

Ze plays it off, chin stubborn, “Sure yeah, you know I do. We were together when David and –“

“No, not,” Zayn wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist. Zir heart jackrabbits against his fingertips. “Not then. Now.”

Harry shrugs into the pillows.

“Niall?” Zayn asks, quietly.

Zir jaw flexes.

 _Fuck_.

“Fuck,” Zayn whispers.

Something strange boils in his body, the feeling a worn and gold-plated tome too big and complicated to translate. His arm feels heavy.

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t – I would have,” Harry stutters to a stop.

“Harry –“

“I was just considering. The opportune time.”

Zayn’s arm pulls back, his body curling in of its own accord.

Considering _what_? Considering how ze also, apparently has a something for Niall, tucked up inside zir like a watermelon plant from a children’s horror story? And -

“When exactly is ‘the opportune time’ for _that_ , Harry?”

Harry huffs, face going a little red, “I’m sure it would have occurred to me when it was opportune.”

Zayn looks at zir for a long moment, zir eyelashes trembling and fingers scratching at the quilt by Zayn’s knee. He knows Harry better than maybe anyone.

“Would you ever have said anything?” he asks, eventually.

Harry’s face pinches. “Whose business is it.”

No, then.

“Hell, Haz,” Zayn says and turns to the ceiling to try and find his balance.

“I just wanted to be – I didn’t know this would.” Harry cuts zirself off and Zayn is fiercely glad for one moment that hearts exist on the inside of the body so he doesn’t have to see what his is doing right now. He grits his teeth together.

“Do you not wanna like –“ Zayn breathes deep, “Do you want me to _not_?”

“No – no, I just, have to,” Harry thumbs at zir lip, “Adjust, maybe.”

Right.

Zayn waits a moment but Harry doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t know that he can say it though. _I still don’t even know what it is_ , he wants to shout.

He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Adjust to me maybe feeling something or me maybe feeling something for –“ _Niall_.

There’s a quiet moment while Zayn traces the sheet imprint on Harry’s arm. Then, a sniffle sound. He looks over to see Harry’s face blotchy, tears trickling out of the corners of zir eyes. He jerks up to curl over zir, tugging them close. Harry feels hot and unhappy in his arms and god, this whole fucking mess has been one thing after another.

“What, Haz –  What’s wrong? Babe?” He cups zir face.

“I just never thought that, it would be a possible thing to –“ Harry hiccups.

“To what?” He brushes tear lines from Harry’s cheeks, murmuring nonsense without realizing he is.

“To have him as a possibility.”

Zayn presses his forehead to Harry’s overheated brow. His breathing feels too shallow. He’s not even sure yet if this is a possible thing in _himself_ and Harry is – _Two speeds_ , Zayn thinks. _No or Go_.

He wants to say, put on the break, _Harry, I need a mo’_ , wants to say, _fucking hell, fuck, fucking fuck_. Wants to give over his hand and have Harry lead him through this.

“For him to be a possibility for us,” Harry whispers, lips catching against Zayn’s stubble.

Us.

 _Us_.

Zayn’s hands tremble.

“Us?” he asks, barely a breath.

“Us.” Harry presses zir lips to the corner of Zayn’s mouth, not a kiss, but a reassurance, a familiarity.

Zayn wants to sink into it, wants to cry himself, let him and Harry just pool into the sheets and never surface.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

Nothing in their relationship has ever been like this. None of their potential partners has been someone with this much weight between them. It feels like enough to capsize their accustomed rocking. It feels big. Maybe too big.

None of their potentials have ever been an _already-something_.

“I’m scared, too,” Harry says.

Oh.

Zayn leans his head down into the curve of Harry’s neck and lets himself cry for the second time in two days. Harry wraps zir arms and legs around Zayn’s neck and waist and cries back and everything smells like their shampoo and everywhere is Harry and Zayn’s nose is running, but the world is just as confused and disgusting as he is.

There’s something like a comfort in that.

There’s a lot of strength in Harry’s hold.

He lets them cry it out. It’s not the first time they’ve cried on each other and the snot is still disgusting but, but Zayn wouldn’t rather be with anyone else.

There’s no one else who knows to press down on the top of his spine like Harry does. No one else kisses his cheek while crying and doesn’t judge him for sobbing because of it. No one else takes the shaky untidy edges of himself and smoothes a line through his crumbled chest and says, “I love you, I love you,” and means this too, means Zayn like this too.

“I love you,” Zayn says back, and means Harry like this too.

The pillows sacrifice themselves to the cause long before they’re both cried out, groddy and dumped on the floor and some part of Zayn is glad for the obvious signs of it, of them, gross and together like this.

Gradually, the waves come slower.

They settle close but not touching, quivering muscles unjudging and moving back and forth like a strange game of ping pong. Harry lets the tissue box prop between them and they take turns complaining about their sore noses. Zayn grabs a water from the floor and passes it over.

“Knew being slobs would come in handy,” he croaks.

“I’ll tell our moms,” Harry rasps back.

They drink slow, letting their bodies resettle, reshape into the bed, and eventually, into each other.

Zayn drifts for a little bit, his peaked headache subsiding as he drinks and rubs circles into Harry’s knee. Ze rubs echoes into his forearm. Breathing patterns together, they pass time without Zayn being able to get a hand around it.

He knows they’re not done. This isn’t resolved and there’s still – the other.

But he feels the better for it, for having been shaky and loud, like just having his outsides match his insides for a bit has relaxed something inside of him. Some voice saying, _just look at me, just acknowledge me!_

He breathes when Harry exhales.

Eventually, of course, knowingly, Harry says, “And the other thing…”

Zir hands are firm against Zayn’s skin, unhesitating.

Zayn closes his sore eyes. He can do this. “I’ve been feeling things about,” He breathes. “About myself. Something about myself.”

“Okay,” Harry says.

Harry shifts in his arms a little bit. One of zir thumbs rubs a continuous outline on the heart over Zayn’s hip. Zayn tries to find the familiar ease in it, tries to sink down into Harry’s steadiness.

“Is the something a gender thing?”

“Yes,” Zayn says, his voice cracking in the whisper.

“Okay.”

_Is it?_

It doesn’t feel like it is.

“I’m scared,” Zayn says, because if Harry can say it then he can too, the two of them still tangled together, wrapped up in snot and tear trails.

Harry traces the line of the heart.

“It is scary. But it’s also,” Harry whispers, thumb pressing down into the center of the ink, “it can be so amazing, Zayn. It can be beautiful and happy.”

It hasn’t felt beautiful and happy.

But.

But if it could –

“Yeah?” Zayn breathes, voice shying away from the chance of a no.

Harry’s leg rubs soft along Zayn’s.

“When I was 16,” Harry says, beginning to draw swirls out from the heart. “I fell in love.”

Zayn didn’t know this.

“I fell in love with a reflection of myself, tucked away in a bathroom, trying to be four genders at once.”

“Oh.”

“I have a happy gender story, Zayn.” Harry tilts zir head against the pillows and smiles a bit, “Mom found out and she was so good about it and she gave me resources and Gemma told people to fuck off whenever they said anything to me that wasn’t ‘you’re gorgeous’. I’ve never been in a place where I’m afraid to say something like, I want to shave my legs. Even here, like,” Harry laughs a bit, “we live in _Austin_.”

Zayn did know this.

“So I don’t know that fear, that terror of not being sure. Of having to te – of any of it.” Harry cuts zirself off and Zayn appreciates it so much, he doesn’t wanna think about telling anyone, about the future or about more than anything than he has to right now.

“But Zayn,” Harry cups his face, “I am here for you. I want to be here for you in every, every way that I can be and I never want you to feel alone or like you can’t talk about it. Or,” Harry rubs zir thumbs along his cheekbones, “like you _have_ to talk about it, if that’s how you feel, either.”

Zayn drags in a ragged breath and Harry’s hands brush at his eyes, the tears gathering for another round.

“Okay, thank you,” Zayn says, wishes it could encompass the extent of the feeling he has, the extent of the gratitude and weight and love he feels.

“And,” Harry says quietly, “I know there is beauty and happiness in this, for you.”

Zayn’s body drums loud in his ears.

“Okay,” Zayn skates his lips along Harry’s chin, kissing along the sharp slope like tripping up the stairs home. “Thank you.”

Harry drags his face together with zirs.

Zayn kisses back and tries to press their bodies into one. Just for a moment, just for one breath like Harry didn’t wish anything before ze knew this, like Zayn didn’t dream anything before he lived this. Harry bites down like it’s too much and Zayn bites back. He knows.

Harry’s hands scratch down the back of Zayn’s neck and he gasps for zir.

“Can we – are you okay, is this okay, tell me what you want –” Harry mumbles against him, voice nearly gone.

“Please...” Zayn says, because he wants and he wants and everything feels like fresh air where their skin is sliding together, but there’s still a metal hook of fear low in him that he could – that it might, and he believes Harry when Harry says it can be beautiful but this is too. “Just - this.”

This is what he wants.

Harry’s hands holding him together.

Zayn’s lungs sprinting a trail across Harry’s collarbones, across zir strong, shaking shoulders, down to zir fingers.

No clothes or cloth between them, but something stronger like understanding, like a _just this_ keeping Harry’s hips just so, tilted away from Zayn’s. Them burning, cooling, gasping, sighing in the space between them.

It fills Zayn from the outside-in, how good they are, how good Harry is to him, how good he can be to Harry.

“I love that we can do this,” Zayn says, when they’re resting, lips bruised and a bite mark or four throbbing in tempo for both of their hearts. Because he’s never had anyone else who would do this with him, would make a new kind of sensuality with him, separate from sex.

Harry smiles at him from the other side of the bed. Zir eyes are still clumped together with lingering salt and zir chest is heaving. Ze looks peaceful. “Me too.”

Zayn reaches out a hand to clasp their fingers together.

They lay there for a long while, just breathing, their fingers falling asleep twined close.

Zayn spends the next few days feeling a little blank, a little crying hungover. He goes to class by habit and office hours by memory. Layan glares at him as he floats in and out of the room.

“If you’re ill, go home, Malik.”

“No,” he shakes his head, insists, “I’m fine.”

He drinks a lot of water that Harry shoves at him.

“Am I okay?” he asks, letting zir drive him back home one afternoon, he realizes, “I’m letting you drive.”

“You’re just dealing with it, Zayn,” Harry says softly, hand wrapped around Zayn’s thigh.

Zayn looks down and realizes it’s because he’s got a chokehold on Harry’s wrist, keeping it there. “Oh.”

“And,” Harry sniffs, haughtily, “I’m a great driver.”

“Harry,” Zayn says.

“Yes?”

“I’m in shock, not dealing with memory loss. Please don’t lie to me.”

Harry squawks and Zayn laughs.

They make it home safe.

He begins to feel a little better about it all, a little clearer like he’s come out from the bathroom after a long soak, not realizing that the air behind him was clouded and full. It’s refreshing.

The next day, he breezes through classes and a meeting with his advisor, skips the library and sees Harry off with Daisy and Aimee for a day having to do with shots and knitting. He smiles and doesn’t ask. Then, he tiptoes his way into Louis’ space, tugs just barely on his sleeve.

“Louis?”

Louis doesn’t jerk away, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could just be plotting how best to kill him with the play-doh he’s organizing for his students.

“Can we,” Zayn keeps his voice low, arms wrapped around his knees. “Talk, please?”

Louis squishes the lid onto a purple blob. “Sure. Talk.”

Zayn’s mouth twists.

The kitchen is empty except for them, prickly on the dirty floor. But, the rest of the house is in full swing. Niall has friends over and Zayn doesn’t recognize half of them and Liam has a study group over and Zayn may recognize them but he certainly doesn’t want to talk with or around them. Liam’s about the only bearable jock.

“Please, Lou?”

Louis heaves a giant sigh and drops two things of play-doh on the floor and steps over the whole colorful mess to the hallway. “Fine.”

Zayn pushes up and follows Louis into his room, trying not to dig his nails into his own arms.

Louis slaps the door shut after them and drops down onto the laundry-basket-slash-bed. Leaving the light switch unflipped, Zayn fumbles his way to the edge of the bed, crawls on carefully, watching the shadowy side of Louis’ face, closed to the faint late afternoon light.

He stays, perched there.

Louis messes with the corners of the sheets, pulls them sloppier.

“So,” Louis says, eventually.

“So,” Zayn says.

“Talking?”

Right.

“I uhm,” He takes deep measured breaths, “Wanted to talk. About. The other day.”

“Did you?” Louis cuts back, vicious.

“Yes.”

Zayn curls his fingers into the sheets, waits it out. Louis isn’t all mad, the same way a volcano isn’t all fire, it’s just what you see from a distance, because it’s too dangerous to go into the crater to look deeper.

The rhythm of Louis’ chest slows in the shadows. Zayn counts seconds in groups of three.

Finally, Louis tosses his arm over his head and makes a soft sound.

Zayn makes a questioning _mm?_ in response.

“Okay,” Louis mumbles into his arm, lowers it slowly to turn his head.

Zayn can’t quite find his eyes in the dark, this far from him, but he nods back, takes in air like a hungry tire.

He shifts closer and Louis puts his arm down by his side, by Zayn.

 _Okay_ , Zayn thinks, _okay_. _Just simple_. Him and Harry talked about this. He doesn’t have to share anything he’s not comfy sharing.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Zayn starts at the root of it, “For not, not staying to debrief and talk about me safewording out.”

Louis moves strangely.

“I’m sorry I put us into that and then made you think it was you. That you were the problem,” Zayn finishes at a whisper, watches the blur of Louis’ face closely as the lines shift and crumple in. “I’m sorry, Lou. We can debrief later if you want or not, and I – I’m gonna be 200% better in the future.”

Silence.

Outside the window, bugs serenade the late summer.

Louis is quiet for long enough that Zayn’s throat starts burning a little, unresolved.

He waits.

“Accepted,” Louis says, at length, sharp and like it isn’t a balm to Zayn. His voice sounds scratched and pummeled.

Zayn closes his eyes for one long moment, “Thank you.”

Louis shifts, hands fluttering before settling back down. “Welcome.”

Shuffling closer, Zayn lets himself breathe deep. He counts it, tries to steady himself, the both of them.

“I’ve been feeling some things,” he continues, “and I don’t want you to think it’s you, because it isn’t but I also don’t want to talk about it yet,” Zayn tries to keep his voice from shaking, “I don’t know when I will want to talk about it, if ever.”

“Okay,” Louis says, a bit empty.

Zayn fumbles for his wrist in the dark, stops himself, “I’m serious Louis, it’s not you. I’m a lot confused right now.”

“Well,” Louis breathes out through his nose loudly, “That much was obvious.”

“Hey,” Zayn leans up on his elbow to look down at Louis, mindful not to crowd or to touch when Louis is feeling unsteady. “When we were having sex, my issue had nothing to do with you. And when you told me that, on the bridge; that was something I needed to hear.”

“Great,” Louis turns his head away, “Didn’t have anything to do with me while you were having sex with me. Lovely. Wonderful for the old ego.”

“Louis,” Zayn says, firmly.

Slowly, Louis’s body relaxes into the bed, head still turned away. Zayn watches him swallow hard. Like a marionette, he turns to face the ceiling gradually, unsteady like his strings are off-lengths. He nods a tiny bit.

Zayn gives a small nod back and eases down to lay on his back, carefully not touching Louis. Pushing off a few t-shirts, Zayn stretches out against the bed.

It’s always like being in a child’s dream of an adult’s room, Louis’ room. Zayn lets the familiar action figures, the messy everything but with blazers and suspenders and watches on the dresser, the bright lego fan and analog alarm that may actually be from Louis’ childhood, lull him to relaxing.

Smells a bit rank with weed, though. Might not quite be in that childhood imagination.

“Are you gonna talk to Niall?”

Zayn closes his eyes.

“Zayn?”

_Don’t ask me this. Please._

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what to talk to him about, okay.” Zayn doesn’t even know what to talk to himself about these days.

“’Well,” Louis says tartly, “You could just say whatever you feel.”

Zayn smiles weakly and tries to focus his eyes on the miniature Iron Man on the dresser. “I’m trying to invest in a little more thinking before dumping verbal garbage on people. Seeing how it hasn’t really gone so well these past few weeks.”

“Mm,” Louis shifts restlessly on the bed, “Fine. But if he asks, I’m not hiding anything.”

Zayn starts upwards, “Why would he ask?”

Louis just crosses his arms.

“Louis, please, why would he ask? Does he know?” _If Niall knows_ , Zayn thinks, _he should tell me so I fucking know already._

“Know what? You just said,” Louis kicks the bed, “that you don’t even know. All I know is there’s something to know, you know?”

“Stop saying know.”

“No.”

Zayn chuckles a bit, but pulls gently at Louis’ arm. His stomach is hurting again. “Please.”

“He doesn’t, okay? I’m just saying, Niall isn’t ignorant or blind. He knows people,” Louis pauses, “He knows you.”

Zayn tilts into Louis’ side, “Yeah. And so do you, okay?”

Louis’ silence is loud.

“I’m serious. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re both just fuckheads and I’m a little all over the place right now. We don’t do angry sex well, anyways.” Zayn laughs a bit, nose against Louis’ soft bicep. He can just make out the shape of the stag in the dark. The heart cracked with a line of music.

“No,” Louis says quietly, “we don’t.”

Zayn leans his forehead against him, and stays like that for a long time.

A tension builds in the bottom of his stomach, though. He can’t – he can’t not know.

“Are you really okay with it?” he asks, too low.

“Zayn,” Louis rubs his hand over his face and the tension spikes, “I just want you both to be happy. Like really, disgustingly, horrifically happy.”

Zayn breathes out slowly and feels his spine stretch with it. “Yeah?” he has to ask.

“Yeah, Z. I wanna walk past you guyses and just gag,” Louis knocks his head gently against Zayn’s, “Pretty enough image?”

Zayn bites at his tongue, rolling the texture.

Louis makes a cutting sound. “Honest. I knew everyone was all poly in some form when I joined up, remember.”

And Zayn does.

That night at Paul’s, Harry just back from zir first time off in Cali. Liam a snowstorm, going for it in that tiny magenta miniskirt. Harry wanting to scene in public, soft like spring and needing to be under both of them, desperate like the last of fall. Niall like their cornerstone of summer.

They were a bit obvious.

But, Harry’s right, that doesn’t really say anything about the specifics of it all. Doesn’t say what they all are or might be.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, though. There’s time for that later. Zayn’s got enough to sort through right now. ”But you’ll let me know – “ He takes a deep breath and pulls back to see Louis, “you’ll let me know if anything…?”

Louis blinks at him in the dark, before reaching out two fingers to tap at Zayn’s chin, “I’ll let you know, love.”

“Okay.”

They stay awake for a while, not talking, but lingering, holding hands, touching scars and freckles and soft patches of tucked away skin, trying to learn a different type of intimacy that Zayn hadn’t realized they’d overlooked lately, or maybe at all. And he’s sad by it. He wants this too, he thinks. Maybe this is something he could want, with Louis, if Louis is okay with him wanting it with Niall.

Carefully, he watches Louis for what’s okay and what’s not. Louis watches him back, doesn’t let them get carried away, or Zayn go too deep into his head.

They fall asleep, just their hands touching, on their separate sides, but Zayn has rarely felt closer to someone.

In the morning, Louis is taciturn, but Zayn was prepared for that. Louis has to pretend to hate the world so he can deal with how much he loves the world.

Zayn passes him the salt at breakfast and doesn’t blink when Louis hisses, “Thank you,” like _fuck off_.

Liam is puttering around them doing little fix-its with the sink and the cabinet handle, Harry’s still at zir sleepover and Niall’s on the phone talking about core requirements and upper elective equivalencies. Zayn doesn’t envy any of them.

He eats a turkey-bacon toast sandwich with relish and reads a bit of _The Life of Pi_ for fun. And to ignore the mounting pile of exam prep he’s supposed to be doing. He’s really an exemplary graduate student.

The flesh eating metaphor of a floating island is halfway through having a monkey lunch, Zayn’s toes curling in an unconscious _ew_ when someone taps the back of his head. Blinking himself out, he looks up and shifts around.

Harry’s back, bright in peach jeans and a soft green lipstick.

He smiles, “Hey. You look pretty.”

Harry does a dorky wiggle-dance and sticks zir tongue out at him in a smile.

Zayn laughs and shakes his head.

“Do you wanna,” Harry asks, softly, “Try on the lipstick or anything?”

A spring of panic unloads itself into Zayn’s spine.

“Uhm,” he says, trying not to show it.

Harry reads him easily, jolts and comes over right away to rub at his shoulders, “Shhh, shh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I won’t ask out of the blue like that again okay, I’m sorry.”

Zayn nods a few times, controlling his breathing by tracing the lines of the cover art over and over again.

Harry lets him go to head back to the counter, to busy zirself with picking an apple, washing it, noisily counting out the letters while turning the stem. Zayn watches it, like always, thinking it’s admirable and silly of Harry to try and get to ‘Z’.

He smiles a bit and gets up out of the chair to stretch his back out from the tension.

A good lie in might be nice, right about now. Where he can go and decompress and try and come to terms with the fact that Harry leaves tomorrow and still has to go back to Cali a few more times this semester. That there’s all this floating around him and he’s somehow gotta balance it because mid-terms are next week. Because school hates him.

His smile curls wry, resigned.

“Wanna head to bed?” He asks, quietly.

Harry stills, mid-bite into the apple with juice dripping down zir hand. It’s gonna leave a mess everywhere but Zayn’s a witness, not the cleanup crew. Ze looks surprised. Zayn thinks it over for a second, before - _ah_.

“Just,” Zayn waves a hand, “for laying.”

He’s not, not ready for anything more right now. His stomach still feels like jello at the thought of whatever it was rising up again.

“Yes,” Harry says, “please.”

They toddle in and Harry nearly pinwheels and takes out the bedside Green Lantern lamp and also three of zir new ocean seaweed candles. Zayn puts one hand down on the wobbling table and one hand to zir hip. He pushes Harry towards the bed.

He snorts. “Elegant, babe.”

“I _am_ elegant,” Harry fusses.

“Yes, Harry.”

Harry _hmphs_.

His pillow is soft and beautiful.

He snuggles close, letting Harry curl into the little spoon haphazardly, their legs tangled together. It stretches his muscles nicely. He hums into it.

Harry hums back. “Y’okay?”

“Mhm, just. Think I have to get a handle on all of it, this,” he rubs his chin over Harry’s hair, ignores the squawk of protest, “b’fore you leave, yunno.”

Harry stills.

“Wish I could stay,” ze says quietly.

“Me too,” Zayn sighs, “But.”

“But.”

Harry twists zir arm loose to scratch at zir back. Nuzzling into the pillow a bit more, Zayn chews at his lip.

“It’s just,” he says, watching Harry’s face twist and giggling a bit, “it’s just a lot, you know.”

“You been thinking about it?”

“Yeah, bit. Feels, like okay to think about it now, you know.”

“Mm,” Harry moans a bit, scratching loudly.

“But,” Zayn reaches out to scratch at Harry’s shoulders, higher up than even zir yoga-limbs can reach.

Harry arches happily, mumbling thanks.

Eventually, ze puddles back down on his chest. “But?” ze prompts, at a whisper.

“But,” Zayn says, “I’ve got mid-terms and it’s like, I haven’t been studying at all because, you know.”

“This.” Harry nods.

“Right. So.”

“Sooo, what do you wanna do?”

“I can’t – “ He doesn’t know. More than ever, he doesn’t have time to know. “I’ve got exam week this week, Haz. I _have_ to study. I’ve got like a 100 question multiple choice just for Palaima’s course.”

Harry winces.

“What, no advice?”

“I would probably panic and throw up, honestly,” Harry says and stretches zir hand up at the ceiling.

Zayn has to laugh a bit, “Probably not the best thing, though.”

“Not really.”

Mm.

Zayn digs his teeth into his lip. Harry’s already done so much. He knows this past week has been hard on zir too. Emotional support is still consuming, even if it’s not always physical. Ze’s been so careful with him.

“Okay. Alright.”

“Alright?” Harry lowers zir hand to the pillow to look at Zayn.

“Not really but I’m not gonna ask you about it again, because it makes you stressed.” He rubs the side of his finger over zir thigh tat, the Escher spiral shell he’s always found gorgeous.

“Oh,” Harry says, like ze’s surprised that Zayn remembers the times before Harry got to portfolio work, the endless cycles of anxiety and malaise that went along with it all for zir. “Thank you.”

“Course babe,” Zayn lets Harry pull him close and bite at his shoulder a bit.

He rubs back in random patterns until ze’s drifted off a bit, still mouthing at the fabric of Zayn’s shirt in that oral comfort kind of way ze always does. It’s just a tiny slip into subspace, just a low level acknowledgement from Harry that ze feels well taken care of and safe with him. He kisses the side of zir temple firmly.

Harry makes him want to live up to that trust.

He texts Shahid one handed, staying wrapped around Harry.

_wat 2 do when I’m a fuck up w 4 exams nxt week_

He piddles around as he waits for a response, wrinkling his nose at facebook.

Shahid texts back an hour later and Zayn belatedly tries to remember if he’s travelling this week or not. Oops.

 _Do the exams. duh_ , he’s sent.

Yeah, Zayn agrees but, _school shouldnt get n the way of real life._ This isn’t like a passing issue he can not deal with.

_this si all part of real life dude. School and the other shit_

Zayn stares at it for a minute.

_All of it zayn. focus on the exams cuz everythng else waits_

_Shit still be shit next week lmfao_

Zayn laughs a little bit.

That’s true, it probably fucking will be.

He thinks about it for a second. Can he just put everything to the back of his mind for a week or three? Can he wait until Haz gets back to solve everything? Harry’s finals are mid-November, and then ze is back for good. That’s not that far.

Harry shifts in his arms and he runs a hand down the back of zir arm. “S’okay, love.”

His phone blinks.

_hate it when im right dontcha_

_ha_ , Zayn sends, _nah man. Hate it when u win at poker tho_

_$214 woooo better look out fckers_

_bite me_ , Zayn sends, grinning, then, _thanks bro, that was good_

_yeah dude anything_

Which is about as emotional as Shahid gets over text, but Zayn appreciates it all, nonetheless. He never quite realized how much he would value people who were outside his bubble until he got close with Harry and the boys.

Helps to have someone who’s not invested in the rest of them, like.

He texts Ant to ask the same question briefly, but he already knows that he’s gonna go ahead with it. The tendency to just go ahead with his first solid idea because it supports his footing is a little too familiar to him.

He sleeps better that night, than he has been, like giving himself permission to freak out at some point later frees up his mind for the now.

Niall looks weary at breakfast.

Zayn looks at him, and at the sad curl of everyone’s spines and puts aside his own issues for a moment to go rub his shoulder, “You okay, bub?”

“Yeah,” Niall sighs, holding Harry’s hand tight in one hand and his coffee mug in the other, “There’s just a fire in Bastrop again.”

“Jeeze,” Zayn breathes and leans his head on Niall’s. That’s the second time in just as many years. And they’re still recovering from the first. “Everyone okay?” Meaning Bressie and Eoghan and Laura and the reason that Bastrop being an hour out still means danger close to home.

“Yeah, few injuries due to like trees and stuff but. Mostly just property damage.” Niall takes a deep breath, “Brez’s station got deployed.”

“Ah, that’s rough,” Zayn rubs at Niall’s back. Liam’s hand joins his.

“Cae’s okay though, right?” Liam asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I just get.”

 _Scared_.

And they all get worried when Niall gets scared.

Zayn looks over to see Louis making hot chocolate and Harry rubbing a slow pattern up and down Niall’s arm. They’ll try and stay close today. Closing ranks like they can protect Niall from the realities of his queerplatonic partner’s and caers romantic partners’ jobs.

They have chili, for Niall and for lunch.

After, they all curl up on the couch and spill over onto the floor and let Niall pick things like _Father Ted_ and _Are You Being Served?_ to watch. For hours, with no break.

They really love him.

Zayn’s tummy does a funny swoop.

Around four, Harry tugs on Zayn’s sleeve and pulls him out of the pile to say goodbye at the front door.

“Taylor’s coming in a minute,” ze whispers, “I gotta –“

“I know,” Zayn says and kisses zir.

He doesn’t cry, but he does go wash his face in the bathroom sink before he can join the rest of them back in the living room.

Harry’s gone.

For the next few days Zayn struggles to hold on to anything but a bad mood. He takes to curling up in random classrooms at odd hours, trying to stay away from distraction and stay in the worlds of monsters that are civil and humans that are horrifying.

Avril keeps him company. Blaring out _it don’t do me any good, it’s just a waste of time, what use is it to you, what’s on my mind_. He sings along on the chorus, feels properly fussy.

Zayn pops his pen on the page absently and thinks _Let Go_ was a musical triumph and no one could blame him. He does, however, jerk for the pause button on his headphones when Liam reaches over him that Thursday.

Liam blinks and then breaks into laughter, “Everything alright, there?”

“ _Yes_ , Liam,” Zayn stresses.

Liam laughs a bit more and reaches back for the wasabi peas tucked into Zayn’s elbow. Zayn frowns and Liam pauses and taps at his forearm.

“Unless,” Liam drawls, “You don’t want dinner.”

Zayn scrunches up his face, moody. Then moves his arm so Liam can grab them.

“Mhmmm,” Liam’s voice trails back as he leaves the room.

Zayn sticks his tongue out at him.

Dinner is fun, if a little weird, Liam and him circling around each other and leaving spaces like they’re waiting for four other people to come in and fill them. They don’t often do things just on their own for so long, Zayn realizes.

He compliments the noodles, asks after Liam’s work schedule.

He’s still listening to Avril, later, in between finishing his rhetoric final and resigning himself to death over his lit final. Honestly three essays in two hours has got to be fucking illegal.

His phone blinks beside him. He shoves aside the notes to check it. School can suck a lemon, honestly.

Niall’s texted, _know ur in school hell but me n lou are gone 4 the week jus wanted to let u kno cuz calendar isn’t sending out updates. Hav to leave early cuz lou exam reschedule_ , followed by a series of annoyed emoticons.

 _Where??_ Zayn sends back, telling himself it’s rude to feel glad about the potential for a bit of distance.

 _If we’re lucky ! space !!_ comes back with almost every star or space emoji and then the rocket ship 12 times.

Jeeze. Zayn laughs. Niall is such a dork.

_Houston texas then_

_Houston !!!!!!_

Zayn plays with his phone case for a second, tracing over the Marvel lettering. It must be Louis and Niall’s 6th month, then. They’ve been talking about going on the trip almost as long as they’ve been holding hands. Niall has an actual friend who manages the aircraft hangar and Louis knows someone in the robotics department, so the tour is massive, once-in-a-lifetime.

Cute.

Dorky, but cute.

 _Buy me the moon_ , he sends back.

_Haha ill have louis wrangle it down for ya, yeahh ?_

And Zayn presses his phone to his face and thinks Louis would, though. _Louis would do anything for you, Niall. And you would never ask him for something he couldn’t do._

Zayn turns Avril a little higher in his ears, so it feels like a hammer against his head. Fitting.

He buries himself in notes and study guides and doesn’t answer back.

A few days and several brutal, resigned exams later, he finds himself sad for the distance after all. Him and Liam are subdued, fairly tiptoeing around the house as they half-heartedly have ramen for lunch and soup for dinner.

“House didn’t seem this big when we first got it, right?” Liam asks, as they share the Sunday comics.

“Didn’t seem like it,” Zayn leans his head into his palm.

Liam makes a soft sad sound and Zayn pulls him in to tuck under his chin. He rubs his hands soothingly along Liam’s sides, lingers over the lovely pudge and soft sweatshirt. His neck just invites kisses.

“Wanna go out tonight?” Zayn kisses just under his ear. “Could go to see something, go to Paul’s, have a round or two. Walk the river, maybs.” Liam always loves that. Goes on about how romantic it is.

Liam freezes a bit, “I –“ he pulls in a breath Zayn can feel, “have to study.”

Zayn frowns “Can I help?” He rubs his hand over the fuzzy back of Liam’s head, twirls his fingers in the curly ends of his mohawk.

“Iunno,” Liam mumbles.

“C’mon, let’s try,” Zayn shuffles them off to get Liam’s books and then to the living room. Keeping his hands on Liam’s hips and swaying a bit makes him giggly and makes Zayn smile into the back of Liam’s neck.

It turns out he can’t help, but they call Jade and put her on speaker and she can.

Liam and Harry have a pilates date at 6 and Zayn convinces him to go out after, even wrangles a blush with a mention of walking the river. Liam trounces off to the shower, looking considerably brighter and Zayn pats him and Harry on the back for a job well done. He calls zir while he’s getting ready.

“So,” Harry says, around a mouthful of zir after-work out power bar. “You’re going out.”

“Mhm,” Zayn digs for his glow-in-the-dark skull earring in their jewelry box.

“So!” Harry says louder.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Going out, like a date?”

Zayn’s hand freezes over one of Harry’s lockets. “What?”

“Like is this,” Harry chews for a second, “A _Date_?”

What. No.

“Liam and I go out all the time.”

“Right.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow and goes back to sorting through the box. Liam and him do go out all the time. It’s just stuff they do, not planned like this or anything, usually. And it’s not usually on their own, but what difference do those make.

“- just want you to be careful, Zayn,” Harry is saying.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, finally finding the earring under the hinge of the box, “Yesss.”

“Yes, what?”

“Oh, uh, yes I am,” Zayn juggles the phone to slip in the earring. “Totally careful.”

Harry makes a strange sucking noise.

“Gonna make your lip bleed,” Zayn says absently.

“Shut up,” Harry says, pleasantly. Then more seriously, “Lemme know how it goes okay.”

“Yeah, course babe.” They always do a day debrief.

The night is fun.

They go to see some cheap thriller and Liam and him holds hands and they go to dinner and Liam flushes into Zayn’s shoulder when he raises their hands to kiss Liam’s knuckles. They share dessert and then share a shot or 12 at Paul’s and then share an uber back to the house and it’s nice. It’s nice, the two of them. “We should do this more,” Zayn mumbles to the back of Liam’s neck.

Liam shivers a bit and then strangely, flushes even more, wobbles a little when Zayn sends him off to bed with just a kiss.

“Thank you for this, Zaynie,” Liam whispers into his neck.

Zayn waves him off and goes to try and find a bottle of water as big as his head.

“Liam is no longer sad,” Zayn proudly declares to Harry, tipsy and struggling to get off his socks.

“Uhuh,” Harry says, then, “Did you just hit your head – _Zayn_.”

“Ughhhh,” Zayn mumbles back, curling into his pillow.

He falls asleep to Harry scoffing at him.

Wednesday, Zayn is over at Shahid’s with some of the other guys. Two pipes in and he’s focusing his thoughts on the shape of Niall’s jaw, the soft corner tucked behind it that he thinks would feel incredibly soft against his lips.

He thinks that maybe, the difference between the touchy-feely ease of all of them now, and the want curling like a science experiment in his stomach, is that he wants to linger.

He wants to spend time with Niall and Niall’s body and his smile and his quiet intimate voice that he only ever gets with Louis or Bressie. He wants that. He doesn’t know _where_ the line between the now and the want is, or if it’s more of a vague implied line, but he wants it.

Naturally, like he’s hearing Zayn’s thoughts hundreds of miles away, his phone buzzes with a snap from Niall.

Zayn holds his breath for a moment and then lets the smoke ease out, pulling sharp at his chest. He hands the pipe off to Abe and takes himself and his phone out to the balcony to listen.

It’s perfectly framed, like all of Niall’s media are, Niall’s arm stretched and precise.

Him and Louis are standing in front of some circular thing that reminds Zayn of a hamster ball, but in theory, should be more important than that. They’re both in blue and white, like they’ve dressed themed for the trip. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Niall’s got on a cap reading _I Need My Space_ with the NASA logo imprint. Zayn shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

Another snap pops up. A video this time. They’re in the same spot and as one, they shout “Houston, we are a gooooo!”

Louis does his ridiculous tongue face and Niall copies it.

Both of them shout wordlessly and then Niall pulls down the phone like he’s shut off the video. It tilts to show their heads and a vast white ceiling.

Louis laughs like a scoff and then he’s flicking at Niall’s hat. “You nerd,” he says, like _sweetheart._

“You love me,” Niall says, unbothered. The edge of his grin that Zayn can see, is so wide, it looks like it hurts.

Louis flushes in his neck, hard and fast and turns away.

The video cuts out.

Zayn presses his fingers to his lips and feels his mind blank for a few minutes.

That’s what he wants.

It doesn’t matter what that line is. It doesn’t matter what the line of friend intimacy and romantic intimacy is, because he’s already gone over it in his heart. Whatever is big and red in his chest has already burst over whatever seams he'd thought were well sown.

That’s what he’s been crossing over into with Niall.

The confusion is just displacement, the sense that he’s not on the same page as his hands, running over Niall’s soft, sensitive ears, trying to pull their lives closer, differently.

Zayn _loves_ him.

It’s a quiet sort of realization.

Zayn stays on the balcony and counts the fireflies. They’re finally starting to leave with the late seasonal patches of cold and rain. The river is calm and heavy. Tinged with the yellow of the streetlights and the lingering purple of a heavy sunset, the sky feels vast and mighty, over the familiar glass-metal skyline.

Zayn doesn’t think he won’t rail at himself about it later, but for now the weed pulls him down, makes it fact instead of fear. For now, he’s probably in love with Niall Horan and Austin is beginning to turn gold.

He drinks a bottle of water and lingers.

The next few days are quiet, and Zayn picks at himself about it like he knew he would.

“Do you think I want too much?” Zayn asks his mom, in the middle of their Saturday harissa lesson.

“No,” She says, immediately, firm. “You have big dreams and the heart to reach them.”

Zayn leans his hip against the counter and chops sadly, “You read that off a hallmark?”

“Read it off you, dear,” Trisha says, gently.

Zayn’s breath catches for a minute.

“Now, how do the chilis look?”

Zayn swallows down his _thank you_ and turns it into a heavy _love you_ when they hang up.

Harry calls him an idiot on their call that night, when he tells zir. But, it’s in the middle of zir coming against the buzz of a tiny but very lovely vibrator, so Zayn doesn’t take it too hard.

He dreams that night about Harry in a wedding shop, trying on a pumpkin that’s too small.

“We need a wand, Zayn!” Ze keeps saying, pulling at the pumpkin.

Zayn keeps looking in shoeboxes for the wand.

The scene shifts to Harry wandering naked in a pumpkin patch, trying to find just the one. But it’s raining and everything is blurry. Zayn reaches out to catch zir when ze slips on mud and Zayn ends up catching a puddle deeper than the sea, his hands blurry and strangely webbed through the foamy waves.

The puddle shivers around his fingers, plays music in an echoey minor.

Harry pops up in a pumpkin hat. “Oh good, you’ve got him.”

Harry kisses the pond as a tree pronounces them all, pumpkin and puddle and plant.

Zayn looks down to see his hands turning into water lilies of orange and blue. It’s surprisingly unscary.

He wakes up and stares at his ceiling for a while.

Harry and him have talked about an outdoor autumn wedding. They’ve talked about the spots of bold color Harry wants and the way Zayn is willing, post a quiet civil ceremony, but it’s always in that sloshy way when drunk and mildly high. Neither of them have remotely proposed.

He dithers for a second, and then pulls his phone off the bedside.

_pls don’t wear a pumpkin to our wedding as a statement, you can have the orange as an accent color_

He’s at the kitchen table, grading his third essay of the day by the time Harry texts back.

 _Excuse you._ and _One of my dresses is copper mellow and my suit has golden rod._ and then _you’re marrying class, thank you._

Zayn grins into his shoulder, giddy. And then reads it over again, replies _one of?_

_A person needs zir dresses, Zayn._

_i want butterbeer_ Zayn says, because compromise is the art of a relationship.

There’s a pause long enough that Zayn manages two more pages of terrible semicolon use.

Then, _so will niall xx._

Zayn’s stomach swoops like a vertical fall. He thinks of blue and water and falling softly.

He sends back two hearts, one orange, one blue.

Louis and Niall are back the next day, looking like a walking ad for a NASA gift shop.

“Amazing,” Zayn says, laying upside down on the couch.

“Sleep. Bed,” Louis says, looking frazzled as he walks straight past the living room and into his bedroom. The door claps shut.

Zayn laughs. “He okay?” he asks Niall.

“Yeah,” Niall laughs back, putting down his keys and reaching to hang up his new jacket. A space station letterman. Ladies and gentlepeople, Niall Horan. “Just stressed. Hit traffic coming out of Houston bad.”

“Yikes.”

“Yup.”

“You like my shoes though?” Niall asks, cheeky and striking a pose.

Zayn pulls himself up and over the couch back to look.

Niall has on keds with purple-pink galaxies on them, bright splotches of stars everywhere. Shaking his head, Zayn says, “Incredible, Nialler.”

Niall giggles and moves his feet a bit, looking down at them happily.

Zayn leans his head on the back of the couch and feels himself smile softly.

They don’t go out that night, but they do the next day, after Louis and Niall have handed out gifts and shrugged shoulders about it.

Zayn smiles as he unwraps the moon pin. It’s good quality, the backing of it firm and Zayn knows it’s something that can go on his jacket.

He smiles up at Louis. Louis scuffs his foot on the floor.

“Niall’s idea?”

Louis fiddles with the frame of Liam and Loki’s picture on the wall. “Both. Of us.”

Zayn rubs his thumb over the smooth edge of it, the rough, geologically accurate bumps of the face. “Thank you, both.”

Louis jerks his head in a nod.

Zayn watches Louis’ face for signs that he shouldn’t, as he wraps him close, but Louis just closes his eyes and decompresses into him. His shoulder blades feel small under Zayn’s hand. He lets Louis sway them for a moment.

Then, Liam pops up beside them, with a brief, “Boo!”

Louis reaches out without looking and pinches his nipple.

“Ow, fuck.” Liam grabs at Louis’ hand.

There’s a shaking to Louis’ shoulders. Giggling too, Zayn presses his nose to Louis’ collar. Louis’ cheek presses against his for a moment before he pulls away.

Zayn lets him go, looking up as Louis pulls Liam in, to bite down on his neck. Nice and harsh. Zayn almost whistles.

“Oh, god,” Liam whimpers.

Zayn grins and leans forward just a second to run his hand down the wicked curve of Louis’ spine.

Louis groans and Liam follows a beat later.

“Zayn,” Liam croaks.

There’s some kind of strange tension in the air between them, something sweeter and sharper on his tongue than usual. A difference in something.

“Mmmm,” Zayn hums, as he taps once more at Louis’ waistline and goes to get his jacket. It’s not quite cold enough for leather yet, but fashion is about more than weather.

They go to the other side of the river, some place Niall’s been raving about on Yelp apparently.

“Only in Austin,” Zayn says as they walk in, “Would a modernist brunch café be next to a low key burger stand disguised as a building.”

Niall throws back his head and laughs.

Zayn lets his tummy swoop and doesn’t try to catch his balance.

The next night, Liam and Zayn are commiserating about exam scores and Louis takes action by making them commentate the entirety of Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

It’s nice to have Niall and Louis back.

Zayn goes to sleep smiling.

He wakes up feeling antsy, his phone reminding him just 7 days until Harry comes home.

They’ve been pathetic together all week, Zayn sending morning pictures of the rumpled bed with an increasingly sad emoji and Harry sending back pictures of the sun filtering around the nightmare traffic of zir morning commute with a running countdown.

He complains about the day, messing with Liam’s mac and cheese so it’s more lemon than butter and turns Louis’ hair into an icing tipped mess until both of them exile him to the living room.

“One more week till ze’s home, Zayn,” Louis shouts, “Chill out.”

Niall comes in then, looking bubbly and wind buffeted and Zayn waves a little.

“Hey.”

Waving back, “Heya,” Niall drops his keys and pulls off his shoes carefully. He edges into the living room and Zayn watches him from his perch on the couch, thinking that Niall might’ve actually bought out the entire space center shop, if he even has rocket socks.

Then again, _Niall_. So, maybe he already had them.

Louis launches out of the kitchen, on the phone, muttering, “Well, if Tonya is eating the glue right now, why aren’t you stopping her, Alfonso?”

Niall and Zayn laugh. Louis throws Zayn the finger, kisses Niall off-centered as he’s tugging on his shoes.

“No, I’m on my way, don’t bother. Honestly,” Louis swings open the front door and then pivots around to point a finger at Zayn. “One fucking week, Zayn. Calm your pretty tits.” He skips out the door, “No Alfonso, not you, though yours are quiiiite lovely –“

Niall cackles as soon as the door shuts.

Zayn huffs and looks down at his phone. No messages from Harry. Ze’s wrapping up some meetings today. Big things with big people. Zayn’s proud but he’s also fussy.

“How you and Haz, by the way?” Niall asks. Zayn looks up to see him fidgeting with his own phone, “Ze hasn’t been very talkative lately. Which, _Harry_ , so. Weird.”

Zayn smiles a bit. “Yeah, just been having some talks. Trying to figure out what we wanna do. What I wanna do.”

“About?”

Zayn looks at the shape of Niall’s jaw, the soft space behind it where his blue-blonde hair has grown out long enough to curl a little bit. He bites his lip. “Everything.”

“Well,” Niall leans on the back of the couch, “There's things that you do and there's things that you do, Zayn.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. Thank you.” Zayn resists the urge to sigh dramatically and settles for draping back across the couch bonelessly, emphasizing his pitiableness.

Niall still doesn’t comfort him. “I’m serious Zayn.” Ragged, bitten nails dig into his chin as Niall drags Zayn’s face back towards him. “And if you’re serious, then you know.”

Zayn tucks his chin in to get Niall’s hands to cup instead of grate. “You know I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I do, so what’s up Mr. O’Malikat?” Niall scritches his dedicated 5-o’clock shadow.

Zayn smiles up at Niall’s scrunched up face, hums a few notes of _Ev’rybody Wants to Be a Cat_.  Niall’s face smooths out to giggle and hum the next line back at him. They dissolve into giggles for a moment, and then a slow wave of silence rolls over.

“Harry’s –” Zayn says eventually, he can’t quite get out _I wanna ask zir to marry me_ _like, for real_ but, “Harry could be. _It_.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something building between them. A displaced sort of absence Zayn can’t quite put his finger on, that makes Niall’s face go too bright and his fingers go a little shaky.

“But you want that.”

“Yeah.” Of course. It’s just – Where does that leave everything else he wants.

Where does that leave _so will niall xx._

Niall looks at him like he hears the conditional. “But?”

“Iunno, Ni,” Zayn says, watching the line of Niall’s eyebrow, the way the dark of his natural hair makes his blue eyes pop unbelievably.

“Dunno what?”

“What else,” Zayn says slowly, eyes on the sprinkle of freckles on Niall’s temple, “I might want.”

Niall cocks an eyebrow.

Zayn clears his throat, feeling the strange pull of the air between them still.

“So, what? You just want a free range to do what you might want?” Niall says, a little cold. “No weighty ties, labels, whatever?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Nialler. You know I didn’t mean that.”

He pokes a finger at Niall’s stomach where he’s standing over Zayn’s couch slump.

Niall catches his finger in his hand. Something silly rolls in Zayn’s chest. _Don’t. It’s a normal touch_ , he reminds himself. _It’s no big deal._

“Then what?” Niall asks.

 _You_ , Zayn thinks. _Would you want me?_

He closes his eyes against the thought.

No, he can’t.

Niall and Louis. Niall and Louis.

Zayn and Harry. Zayn and Harry.

Is he just being greedy?

 _Doesn’t everyone deserve to be a little greedy?_ He argues with himself. _Especially for Niall._

Everyone deserves a Niall.

He’s so tired.

There’s a gentle pressure against his cheek and a soft, close sigh that ruffles his hair. A quiet murmur blurs across his hearing.

“. . .wish you would . . . Harry and me –“

Zayn tries to hold onto it, but he’s already drifting away. The last thing he feels before the soft darkness swallows him is his hand being gently placed on his stomach.

He dreams of eating falling stars like pop rocks of beauty on his tongue. One after another of sweet, impossible possibility.

The world is vast and bright.

Zayn walks with his arms wide and his tongue out.

There are bridges of words like woven kaleidoscopes of metaphors and rains of verbs swirling, colliding, gathering, building in the gutters of the streets.

Something about the intricate pinkblue of them all is familiar, is a promise.

Zayn wakes up to Harry humming _Catch a Falling Star_. His head is in zir lap and the room has gone sharp and cold. Nighttime, and the sounds in the house echo distantly.

“Were you humming that the whole time?” Zayn asks, voice scratchy.

“Nope. Just started,” Harry’s leg bumps up and down and ze scritches at Zayn’s scalp.

“Creepy.”

“Huhm?”

“Dreams.”

“Ah.” Harry fingers smooth over his temples, firmly.

“Hey,” Zayn realizes, “You’re back.”

Harry smiles and kisses his forehead. “I’m back.”

Warmth blooms in Zayn’s chest, “Hi,” he says softly, reaching out to curl a finger in one of Harry’s ringlets. Ze looks so pretty today, even upside down, all piled hair and bright magnolia romper.

“Hi,” Harry whispers back.

Zayn rubs the texture of zir curl in his fingers, “You’re early.”

Harry blushes a little and Zayn presses his lips to zir wrist. He feels the same, is thankful, is so, so grateful.

“Thank you,” he wraps the curl around his finger, “You –“ he breathes deep, lets himself hope, “You staying this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, and it is.

They cozy into their bed and lock the door. Cinnamon burns around them, overwhelming and sharp, like Harry under him, beside him, inside him.

He tells Harry, in the kitchen later, about his conversation with Niall.

“’s just weird is all.” Zayn closes his eyes, bites lazily at the splotch of colors across Harry’s back, “Layered.”

Harry hums, shoulder moving happily under Zayn’s teeth. “You ever get the feeling that Niall like knows things, like about the universe?”

“Fuck,” Zayn laughs, “yeah.”

“Scary,” Harry drawls.

“Totally.”

Liam pops up around the corner of the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. Zayn’s eyes flicker over his curly hair, the stretched out sweatshirt that looks like it’s been through a shredder.

“What’s scary,” Liam yawns, “is that you two are making churros at 3 am.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants, Liam,” Harry says loftily.

“Right.”

Zayn giggles.

Harry measures out more flour.

Liam leans against the counter for a bit, asks why they’re baking the dough – “Thought it was deep fried, s’all.” His brow line is squished sweetly.

Zayn presses his thumb to the bottom of his neck. Delight curls down his spine as Liam leans easily to give him room, the way his body lets Zayn in like trust is a reflex.

“Guuuh,” Liam groans.

“- so you can do them in the oven just as well. I would argue,” Harry puts up a finger, “the texture is even better.”

“Not hard to beat what you haven’t had,” Liam nods, drooping against Zayn’s hand.

“Hey,” Harry and Zayn say.

Zayn pinches just a bit at Liam’s neck and Liam giggles, curling in his shoulders.

“Stop, stop,” Liam bats at his hands, “I’m too tired to laugh. Sleep.”

He does kiss them both gently, sleep sickly-sweet breath and all.

They watch Liam toddle off.

Zayn blinks heavily.

“I’m exhausted,” Harry says.

“Same, ugh.”

He and Harry eye each other for a moment.

20 minutes is a _long_ time.

“Think they’ll keep in the fridge?”

Harry curls a grin. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Nice,” Zayn drums on Harry’s shoulder and blinks slowly, sleep battering at him like a ram.

They clean up lazily. At 3 am, there’s only so much you can do, Zayn reckons. They’ll get ribbed but, nothing to do about it.

“Oh well,” Harry giggles into his neck as they stumble back down the hall, clumsily hitting at the lights as they go.

Cinnamon swirls around the corners of their room, almost too sharp under Zayn’s nose as they creak open the door and settle in. He wrinkles his nose and fumbles under the sheets, so the smell balances with their nice herby shared conditioner.

“Maybe,” Harry mumbles, as ze struggles with the blankets, “Maybe Niall already knows.”

“Knows what?” Zayn, mumbles back, swigging water from the bottle on the bedside.

“About. Bout you know.”

Zayn carefully drops the water back down and closes his eyes into the pillow.

“Go to sleep, Haz,” he mumbles.

The sun wakes them up at an ungodly 8AM.

“I hate everything,” Harry snaps into zir pillow.

“Ugh,” Zayn responds.

They manage a shower at about 10 and breakfast at about 11. By 12, everyone is home and the kitchen is loud and friendly in a way that makes the day turn a better shade of yellow.

Niall greets Harry with a delighted, “Harry! You’re baaaaack,” and a hug long enough that Liam finishes brewing a whole pot of coffee.

Zayn’s chest sympathizes with the coffee, feels bubbly and hot just watching them stand there in the kitchen, hugging.

Niall is all over Harry the rest of the day, bouncing, holding zir hands, making Harry laugh doubled over. Harry pulls Niall closer and close until it looks like they’re one four armed prehistoric being, accentuated by the way their laughter has kicked up into strange guffaws.

Zayn watches from his spot on the counter.

“Whatchu thinking, partner?” Louis asks, quietly.

Zayn offers him some gummies.

Niall is asking Harry how come ze’s home early, in between laughing hysterically at whatever Harry is doing with zir legs. “No, no more practicals, just written, like email stuff,” Harry replies, trying to catch zir breath.

Louis takes a red gummy with his eyebrows raised. Habit tugs at Zayn to take it back, but he knows Louis likes them; what’s more, he knows Louis is just testing things.

“Wow, dude,” Louis says, holding the red gummy aloft.

Zayn shrugs.

“Well, I’m just special, aren’t I.”

“Yup,” Zayn agrees.

Louis inhales for long moment and looks put upon. Then, he reaches over. Zayn sticks out his tongue and Louis puts the gummy on it carefully. Chewing, Zayn mumbles a thank you.

“Uhuh,” Louis says, suspiciously.

Zayn pops another red in and says quietly, “I’m thinking,” he chews, “I’m not the only one who wants stuff.”

Louis glances back at Harry and Niall and then to Zayn again. His eyes narrow.

The gummy sticks like taffy in Zayn’s teeth.

“Is that -?” Zayn licks at his teeth. “Does that bother you?”

Louis clenches his jaw, looking at Harry sprawled on top of Niall. Niall is laughing into the curve of zir shoulder as Liam says something about track practice. It feels warm to Zayn, looks like home.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Louis steals a yellow gummy, bites its head off.

“Okay,” Zayn says, mild. “Cause if it did –“

“It doesn’t.”

“But if it did –“

“It. Doesn’t.”

Niall cackles loud enough to echo and Louis bites off two more heads.

“Lou,” Zayn says quietly, turning them so that Zayn’s blocking Louis’ view of the rest of the kitchen. He presses them back into the cabinets. Not trapping, but sometimes Louis needs to know you don’t want him to go anywhere.

“What,” Louis flicks at a bit of dirt on the counter, doesn’t even try to look over Zayn’s shoulders.

“Niall loves you.”

Louis’ throat bobbles hard. 

The sounds of laughter at their backs dies down a bit, receding into the living room.

Twisting the edges of the bag closed, Zayn says, “He loves you. _You_. We would not – are not, gonna do anything, anything at all to jeopardize that. What you two are,” he continues, quieter, watching the side of Louis’ clenched jaw, “Is something beautiful to us. We want to support that. Not take away from it.”

 _And_ , Zayn thinks, _we don’t even know what we want yet anyway_. Can’t usurp with a confused nothing.

Louis eyes close for a second, “Yeah?” he whispers.

“I promise, Lou. Promise.”

“Both,” Louis’ voice cracks, “both of you?”

“We promise,” Zayn aches to touch him, knows to keep back.

Louis nods, shuffles his shoulders like he’s trying to curl away all the rockiness in his bones.

“Maybe,” Zayn says quietly, “You should talk to Harry a bit about it?”

“Should I?” Louis bites out.

Zayn inhales steadily, tells himself not to bite back, “Yes.”

“And why’s that, hm?” His accent is stronger than usual. A little more out of the lines than he usually lets it.

“You know why, Lou. Because it wasn’t me that got you wound up like this.” Zayn twists at the gummy bag, mumbles down, “I don’t know what to say.”

Silence for a moment.

“Fuck,” Louis says, and tosses his head back, clacking it against the cabinets. He crumples with an even louder, “Fuck!”

“Fucking –” Zayn drops the bag to reach out to Louis, his curled groaning.

Louis tilts into him and Zayn lets himself run his hands over Louis’ head gently.

“What the hell, Lou,” he hisses.

“Don’t blame me, it was the cabinet!”

“What the fuck,” Niall says from behind them. Zayn pivots, barely managing to catch Louis as he tries to turn as well and stumbles.

Zayn’s heart lurches. Niall’s in the doorway, eyes wide and worried, unaware of being the focal point of all emotion in the universe.

“It’s fine,” Louis shouts, “Fine, fine, fine.”

Niall stares at them for a moment and then leans his head heavily against the wall, “Ice it, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, a little breathless, “Course, yeah.”

“Okay,” Niall says, and rolls his eyes and leaves. There’s a distant mumble of, “Incredible. _Idiots_.”

Zayn gasps a laugh into Louis’ shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis says.

“Nah man,” Zayn says, easily.

Louis leans his chin into Zayn’s neck.

“Okay,” Louis says, quietly, and it feels like more than just about Zayn, feels like it might be about all of them.

“You’ll talk to Harry?” Zayn asks. He worries.

Louis’ eyelashes brush against the underside of his jaw as his eyes close. “I’ll talk to Harry.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, because thank you feels too self-important.

He lets them go.

Louis takes a deep breath before he waltzes into the living room, all jazz hands and too-showy gestures, “I MAY have a serious injury and need immediate coddling. Get your hands ready for my feet, sweetpeas.”

Zayn laughs as the rest of them shout over one another at Louis. He can just make out Liam’s voice going high, “I’m gonna give a serious injury to your _ego_ , Mr. Orgasms Like A Moose.”

Louis makes a huffy sound not unlike a moose and there’s the sound of something crashing to the floor. Liam, probably.

“Not my pastels,” Harry shouts.

Zayn laughs again. 

Picking up the gummies and trashing the few that sacrificed their lives to the floor, Zayn wanders over to watch.

They’re ridiculous.

He loves them.

The next few days flip through his hands easy like cards. The ease down from exam season relaxes his muscles and having Harry back, _for good_ , Zayn thinks with relish, is like his own personal sunlamp. He’s greedy with Harry, hands in zir hair and on zir thighs and holding zir hand constantly in public, heart thrumming and face flushed with happiness like it’s the kinkiest thing he’s ever done.

Harry indulges, is greedy back.

Ze’s got one hand in the back pocket of his joggers, and one intertwined with his. The store isn’t busy at this hour because it’s a Thursday at 11:20 AM and they’re both smart cookies who plan their shopping when the rest of the world is otherwise occupied.

But that means it’s 11:20 AM on a Thursday, in an HEB in Austin, Texas, and Zayn is standing in the razor aisle thinking of the hair growing back on his legs. He is thinking how he categorically does not want it to.

It’s weird, it’s different, and it makes something harsh tug at the seams of his stomach, but. But he knows he doesn’t want it.

"Is there a difference?"

They’re just razors. He has a shaver for his face, has had for years.

This is not new.

He feels like this is something he should know, should not be clutching Harry’s hand in the middle of HEB over, but the potential of it, the reality of what it’s _for_ seeps into him, turns his bones to jello. No one around them knows, but - but how could they not, when it feels so obvious, so much.

"If it's blue, it's cheaper and yet miraculously works better," Harry says, darkly.

Zayn turns to laugh into Harry's shoulder, the stress in his tummy popping like a small bubble of gas.

"You could just use Liam's or my spares, babe," Harry kisses his temple. "Don't have to make a decision today."

"No?" Relief.

"Naw, just remind me at home?"

"Yeah," Zayn mumbles, presses a kiss to the corner of Harry's jaw. _Thank you._

Harry presses zir dimple against him, sloppily mouths at the side of his mouth. _You're welcome._

They get home as Louis is packing his bag into his car.

Zayn lets Harry juggle the cold stuffs up the porch steps and pauses.

“Off to check on Lottie?”

Louis gives a shrug-nod.

Smiling because there’s little to nothing that Louis is humble about like he is about how good he takes care of his loved ones, Zayn nudges his foot with his own. Louis nudges back, grins a bit.

“Drive safe.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No,” Zayn says, dry.

Louis laughs, tipping his head back.

In the late morning light, he’s picturesque, all high tops and faded graphic tee. The sunglasses perched on his head look in danger of falling. Look like they might be Niall’s.

Zayn shakes his head a bit and wanders inside to help Harry put away the groceries. Louis is braver than Zayn is.

“Yessss,” Niall says from the kitchen, clutching the giant bag of nuts Harry has plonked down.

Zayn would make a comment, but it seems too easy.

“No, no,” Niall says, then, one hand reaching to his mic’d headphones, “Sorry, not you Bres. That sucks,” his voices gets lower and he curls around the bag. “None of you?”

Frowning, Zayn tugs at Harry’s side.

The pickles go on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Harry is reaching for the top.

Zayn tugs at zir harder, “Top.”

“Yes, Zayn, this has a top.”

“I’ll _top_ you,” Zayn threatens.

Harry’s eyes dance, “Oh yes, please.”

Zayn giggles into the curve of Harry’s shoulders.

By the time they’re getting ready for bed, he’s a little breathless for a different reason.

Harry perches on the toilet seat, feet up on the tubside.

“You don’t hafta,” zir voice is soft.

“I want to,” Zayn says, even as his hand shakes and his chest does that weird floaty out-of-body bit he’s come to associate with these weird moments.

Gender moments, Zayn reminds himself.

It’s okay to think, it’s okay to say it.

He breathes in, unsteady.

Harry’s brightly colored fingernails come into view. “Let me, babe?”

“Do you,” Zayn breathes out, “Want to?”

“Yeah,” Harry says easily.

“Okay,” he hands over the razor, Harry’s anyway.

Harry draws the razor down his leg like a brand, like cotton. The way it pulls the shaving cream to leave a clean line feels like a metaphor. It’s _pretty_. Zayn inhales.

“Besides,” Harry murmurs, eyes looking up at Zayn through green tinted lashes. “You looked like an old person, shaking the razor against the kids in your yard.”

“Harry –”

The weighted moment has to rightfully be put aside so Zayn can shove Harry into the water in the tub.

Harry shouts and cackles.

Zayn goes to bed rubbing his legs together, squirmy with a twisted, near nauseating pleasure.

That Saturday, they wake up lazy, lounge around the house, until they end up in the kitchen.

Niall’s making caramel apples for some reason.

Harry’s got zir legs pulled up on the counter, munching on cookies that Taylor made earlier this week. The sketchbook on zir lap is small, but exploding with color, visible even from where Zayn is at the table. Ze looks in the zone, whatever it is. Zayn admires the way that sunlight frames zir for a moment. The way the beam skips across the kitchen to light on Niall’s boots, his very nice wranglers. Niall’s hips are swaying as he stirs the caramel.

Zayn leans his head in his hand to watch. He should probably eat, but sitting here feels more important.

It’s easy and warm.

Liam moves around in the living room. On tidy-up duty this week, and doing it while listening to ANTI very loudly in his ears.

“So,” Niall says loudly. Zayn blinks at him. “Y’all are coming to mine and not anyone else’s, right?” Niall glares at him over the apples.

Zayn raises his eyebrows as his stomach rumbles.

“Your what?”

“Party.”

Right.

“Is it…here?”

“Zayn.” Niall swirls an apple expertly.

“Niall?”

“It’s been on your calendar for like, 7 months.”

7 months. Niall probably knows how many days. Zayn refrains from asking, even though the laughing blush is one of Niall’s best looks.

“I’ll be honest,” Zayn says, stretching his arms a bit, “I have no clue what’s on my calendar.”

Niall sighs and dashes some nuts on the caramel with more force than usual. Harry gives Zayn a look like, _Fix this_.

Zayn gives a look back like, _What the hell_.

“Sure Nialler, course we’ll come to yours,” Zayn says, gently.

Niall places the finished apple on the wax paper and takes a swig of the bottle on the counter. It’s suspiciously red.

“You have no idea what the party is for,” Niall sighs.

“Not an utter clue,” Zayn says, brightly.

Niall laughs and turns back to the apples.

“Today,” he announces, “is Halloween, Zayn.”

Zayn blinks. “Is it?”

“Yeah, it’s almost November. Surprise.” Niall throws him jazz hands, which Harry echoes.

“Temperature feels like September,” Liam grumbles as he shuffles past to the laundry room.

“We love your sweaty self, Liam,” Harry assures from the counter top, muffled around the cookies.

“Huh,” Zayn hums.

It’s not surprising, it just feels like so much has happened in the past few weeks and also like nothing has happened at all. Being on Harry time throws off the rest of his awareness, he guess.

“Whoopsie,” he says to Niall.

Niall rolls his eyes and twirls another caramel apple.

Zayn’s stomach rumbles. He also remembers, vaguely – “Weren’t you talking about someone else’s party a few weeks ago?”

Niall sighs down at the apple. “Cancelled. Laura’s shift got changed at the station and Asami has a portfolio piece due tomorrow. She’s been mixing all week.”

“Ah.” Zayn watches Harry get crumbles all over zir drawing and then look down at it like ze is in pain. He stifles a giggle into his elbow.

“So, does that mean you don’t have a costume?” Niall asks, as he sprinkles nuts.

“Please,” Zayn says, “Have a little faith.”

Niall laughs.

Zayn ducks his head a bit, smiling too large. It feels like his heart could be seen from space. Harry gives him a knowing look and pops another cookie into zir mouth. Zir fingernails are in orange and black. Maybe it ought to have been a sign, but Liam’s have been like that for a week and Harry is constantly shoving warm colors into cool spaces.

Literally, but also metaphorically, like.

Zayn squeezes at Harry’s hip and then Liam’s on the way out of the kitchen. They’re soft and a lovely pudgy as they try and steal snacks from under Niall’s nose.

The sound of Niall telling them off follows Zayn as he wanders into his and Harry’s closet.

He’s not really sure what he’s looking for, but there has to be something. Him and Harry aren’t Louis level pack-rats, but they hold their own. Starting to dig through the back drawers of one of the dressers, he flips on one of his chill mixes and lets Erykah sing him low.

Harry wanders in sometime after Zayn has dug all the way to the box of their scene gear, which has begun to accumulate latex in that way that all latex seems to find other latex.

“When did we get like, four black jumpsuits?” he asks, tilting his head back to see Harry peeking in, curls slopping over the apple in zir hand.

Zayn stares at the mess of caramel for a second before looking back at zir.

Harry shrugs and lifts up zir hair to lick at it for a second.

Zayn giggles.

“One spandex,” Harry says eventually, “Two latex – one crotchless, obviously – “

“Obviously.”

“- One leather.”

Hmm. _Leather._

“Really?” Zayn asks, and digs a bit more through the box, looking for it again.

“Yeah, not like superb but.”

“Decent.”

“Doable.”

“Dashing.”

“Debonair.”

“Devilish.”

“Dom,” Harry smacks a sticky kiss to Zayn’s cheek.

“Yuck,” Zayn says, tugging Harry closer.

When they kiss, it’s sharply sweet, a tingle against Zayn’s tongue that Harry chases with zir teeth. Zayn groans lightly, pulls back just a bit to kiss at Harry’s dimple.

“Need to find a costume and get to work,” Zayn whispers.

“Gotta show everyone up,” Harry whispers back.

Zayn grins. “Well.”

“Mhmmmm.”

He cackles, kisses Harry once more before pulling out the leather jumpsuit.

“Whatchu thinking, Maybelline?”

A tiny sliver of pleasure works its way down Zayn’s spine and he breathes through it, a little shaky. He’s trying to get used to that, to feeling something sharp and _good_ about himself from old things in new ways. Feeling himself – his gender – do a little wave about little things. Harry’s helping, not changing, yet, but. Watching, listening.

It’s still scary.

Zayn rubs a thumb along the crisscrossing lines of the leather, the suit designed for someone with or without a lot of breast.

It’s sorta – It’s a bit like…

“I,” Zayn exhales, “am thinking I could try and be something a little adventurous.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, eyeing him carefully. Watching, listening. “You are an adventure.”

Zayn hides his smile in his shoulder, reminds Harry, “Yeah well, I saw those sequin bags in your bottom drawer, five minutes ago. What are you planning?

“Shhhhhh,” Harry slobbers on him.

Harry helps him with it, lets him wield zir homemade textile paint for the inside of the cape Zayn steals from Liam in return for a kiss and a giggle.

“The fact that you have to steal a cape but you have a special release, fully functioning utility belt is scary,” Harry says, mildly, running an easy line of white down the cross lines of the leather.

“Who doesn’t have a spare X-Men utility belt?” Zayn asks, reasonably.

“Of course, dear,” Harry says, and leans over to stop him from dripping the paint on zir jeans.

The last bit, Harry can’t really help with, so they leave the paint drying with a fan on the backyard rack where Harry’s paintings usually live. He kisses zir cheek, and flounces off with a bit of a bounce in his step.

He texts Perrie as he’s shaving. He has everything but one of the bits.

The razor slides smooth along his jaw, sends strange tingles down his spine like anticipation. He thinks vaguely of his legs, hair starting to grow a little bit over the days, soft and newly prickly, how strange in a different way his same body can be. Shaving them right now is unnecessary but, knowing that he could ask Harry and they could, or he could – He smiles into his shoulder, his reflection’s cheeks red and round.

Perrie texts back a boxed series of _??????not at home._

And then _Did u forget u soggy pringle_

Zayn rolls his eyes _, I know, ur all on tour. But i know the spare is in the squirrel_

_you know, out of context.._

_Perrieeeee_

Zayn can imagine her giggle, probably listing into Jade’s side, cramped together in their tour bus.

_Ya ya, s’fine. But you’re replacing it !!!_

He grins and finishes up shaving.

Harry is back in the kitchen with Niall when he comes out. Keys in hand, he lingers for a moment in the hallway. Harry’s up on the counter again, by where Niall’s doing something in the sink. They’re talking about something quietly, indiscernible over the noise of Liam vacuuming and singing along _to Love On The Brain_. Harry’s hands are clenched around the edge of the counter. Holding back.

It’s not like Harry and Niall never touch.

They touch all the time, they’re a friendly group of friends and – Zayn remembers with a bit of a jolt, doesn’t know how he could have not thought about it in all of this, except that Harry hasn’t been around enough for it to be a thing, but – Harry and Niall even kiss sometimes, have done when they’re feeling particularly good and into the moment. But, it’s never, it’s never been for long or much and Niall always pulls away quick and Harry doesn’t push it.

Watching Harry’s hands tense and release around the counter, thinking of the way Harry whispered, cracked and aching, _“To have him as a possibility,”_ Zayn wonders how that was. He wonders what that was like, in Harry’s heart.

It’s not just Zayn dealing with things.

It’s going to be both of them, going to be all three of them.

Butterflies flutter in Zayn’s stomach.

He wants that so bad.

Wants the space between Harry’s longing lean and Niall’s easy love to be nothing, to be pushed aside by the way Harry’s hand would fit to Niall’s lower back, pushed under his dress shirt. Wants for himself to be able to walk across their worn tile floor and press his hands beside Harry’s, curl his chin over Niall’s neck and kiss the secret, sweet spot under his jaw. 

He wants to have little moments like earlier between the three of them, but more.

He’s always had enough love in him to bridge gaps between people, when Liam and Louis needed someone to circle around, when Ant and Danny needed a temper, when Layan and Malay wanted a grad student to telephone between.

He doesn’t mind being that here, if he needs to.

Wants to, if it’ll put Niall’s hand in theirs.

There could be so much good about their balance.

It flutters along his tummy all the time now, the idea that Niall could be – could _be_.

He’s smiling as he drives to Perrie and the girls’ house, like his nerves have taken hold of his facial muscles.

He pulls up smiling for a different reason.

Their house is cute. The plants are still smiling under their 70 year old neighbor’s green thumb and the wood pastels lie sharp against the dark brick. It’s sweet, and Zayn feels that same shiver of pride like he always does that they’ve come so far and made it so big that they have a tour crew and a headlining show and this little house safe and waiting for them when they get back.

He finds the hide-a-squirrel under the bushes in front and tiptoes his way through the house to the bathroom.

The dye is under the sink, in a huge basket of dyes rivalling a Walgreen’s aisle. Zayn shakes his head. The platinum is almost full, instructions half stuck out of the box. He takes it and locks up quietly.

Flicking Perrie an _I O U_ he drives home. Excitement zings in his fingers, tapping along to _what’s normal anyway_ as he waits behind lights.

“Don’t let them change you, just be who you are,” he sings, softly, feels it even stronger than usually.

It’s a big thing, maybe, and also maybe a small thing, him choosing this as his costume, in front of all of them and their friends circles. Maybe, Zayn reasons, as he pulls back in their drive, it’s only big to him. But in that same way, he reasons, the shaving is a big thing. It means something, Harry’s reassured him of that. Everything he’s ever read about this stuff reassures him of that.

It’s okay to feel what you feel, he reassures himself.

His stomach is still tight.

The house is swirling when he gets back in, Liam and Niall bustling around, shouting things vaguely to each other. It’s barely noon, but they’re acting like hell itself is gonna descend in an hour.

He skirts his way around the chaos into the bathroom.

Pulling on one of Liam’s oversized throw-away shirts from some sporting event, he gets to work. It’s a fun process, Zayn’s always liked the sharpness of the smell, the thrill of changing something so solidly, but not permanently, about yourself. He could get used to this.

The bleach sits, itchy as Zayn hums and waits it out in the bathroom.

Absently, he hopes no one has to use the bathroom. Oops.

When the timer goes, he tips himself into the shower spray carefully. Having near-shoulder length hair is cool in that the application was pretty easy, but the clean-up leaves a lot to be desired. He could do with the neatness of short hair with still the wicked thrum of color.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Zayyyyyn,” Liam’s voice calls, “You’re very stunning already. I need to use the bathroom, please?”

Zayn laughs, washes more bleach out of his hair.

He’s only on the third round. Hair dryers are nice, and his hair takes to dyeing good, but it’s a timed process.

“Two more goes for the toner and dye, Payno!”

Liam whines, scratches against the door pathetically. Zayn flips off the shower and scrubs at his head with the throwaway towel.

It’s not like Liam couldn’t come in anyway, it’s just sorta one of those lines you don’t really cross even with a best friend you’re having sex with. A certain boldness of intimacy.

“Lemme put in the toner and then you have two minutes, okie?”

“Okie,” Liam shuffles, makes some more sad sounds.

Zayn laughs and has to focus not to drip on himself.

When he slides out the door Liam launches himself in. Laughing some more, Zayn leans carefully against the wall.

Niall passes him by holding a giant pumpkin that has Harry written all over it. Literally.

“Yeah?” Zayn asks.

“Shush. Harry said ze would,” Niall tells him primly, then turns to shout at Harry and Zayn’s bedroom, “And you better, you silly, sequined, sloth!”

There’s a grumbled protest from Harry.

Zayn laughs some more.

Niall sticks his tongue out at him. “Love the look by the way. Very bleach.”

“Pft, give me another hour and it’s gonna knock you off your rocket socks, babe,” Zayn winks.

Niall smiles, leans his chin against the pumpkin for a moment, says, “I never doubted it,” softly.

Zayn stomach wiggles happily.

“Well,” he says, breathless.

Liam comes out of the bathroom, then.

“Niallerbee, oh no, here,” he says, leaning to take the pumpkin from Niall. Niall beams at him, pinches his cheek.

“Handy-dandy-Leemo. Thanks, hon. Backyard?”

Liam laughs and turns to the backyard, Niall following, bopping the beat of something on his sturdy back.

“Hey, eat something, you banana squash!” Niall calls back to Zayn.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn says, quiet.

He wanders through finishing the toning and the dye, absently plays around on his phone, gets sucked into Instagram for a while, lets the fumes swirl around him until finally he looks into the mirror and at his hair. The strands are a bit of a mess, scratched from all the bleach today and flopping, but. But, it looks delicate, good. The platinum sharp and bright against the dark of his eyebrows, the darker streaks he left in. It makes his hair look longer, somehow. With a little styling, it’ll be perfect.

7 hours, Zayn thinks. Success rings in his bones.

He finishes up, cleans and sets it all with pomade and spray. Skipping out of the bathroom, he nearly runs headlong into Normani.

“Fuck,” he stumbles to a stop.

She laughs at him, pats his shoulder and continues on outside.

The house is booming. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice all the people coming in, the noise level rising and rising until it tipped to this crescendo like movement rather than audio. He vaguely recognizes almost all the people in makeup and bright colors and fake blood, even if they pass him without acknowledging.

The hair – Zayn realizes.

That’s kinda nice, the anonymity, for a bit at least.

Someone tries to nudge past him, face covered by a Frankenstein mask.

“Oh, sorry,” he shuffles out of the way.

They shut the door.

Zayn rolls his eyes and maneuvers his way through people to peek in his and Harry’s room. Sure enough, there on the dresser is the suit. He closes the door, grinning. When he presses a finger to the fabric, it comes away dry.

Not a shabby job, if he does say so himself. They make a good team.

Now all he has to do is wear it. In front of this many people.

His heart is beating a little fast.

Not like people don’t cosplay all the time as characters not their gender or their ID, Zayn knows. How many cons he’s been to, he definitely knows.

It’s just different, this.

Zayn pulls off his clothes carefully, stands for a moment in just his boxer briefs looking at himself in the mirror. Tattoos ring like splotches around his torso, his arms. Zayn touches his fingers to the red zap for a moment, the kiss, the single spots of color, like small hearts of comfort. Touching himself isn’t bad now, not with all the other stuff going on in him, but it’s weird. Feels disconnected. He looks in the mirror and thinks about what Harry said about falling in love with zirself.

He’s not there yet. Maybe won’t ever be. He’s not even sure who he’s seeing in the mirror – what the reflections are supposed to reverse and make clear.

The hair looks good, though.

It’s strange in a good way, a delighted kind of unfamiliarity.

The streaks of his usual black against the tinted grey is exactly –

“Storm,” Zayn whispers to himself. Ororo like the northern lights, like strength and power and a darkness bright.

The suit is soft under his hands.

It feels right.

Still, he stands for a moment holding onto the door knob with it all on; the suit, the way it sits big against his small chest, the cross of the belt, the hugs of it all, the cape secure.

Just because it feels right doesn’t mean it isn’t scary.

He closes his eyes for a second, says a quiet prayer and turns the knob.

The party is _loud_.

The sound hits him in the chest as soon as he is out the door. There’s some kind of monster mash remix on and the bass rings down the hall, twines around the people Zayn sidesteps on his way down the hall. They’re half-shouting, leaning close into each other. No one Zayn recognizes but that doesn’t mean anything. Niall knows people on Mars.

As he moves, the cape swings against the back of his legs, and he smiles down at it, a little giddy even over the bubbles in his throat against people he does know seeing him like this, knowing him like this.

He runs into someone.

“Fuck.”

He stumbles, nearly trips on the cape, nearly takes out the picture frame on the wall of Loki and a young Liam.

Someone is laughing.

“It’s not a good picture of me, but it’s not that bad, Zayn.”

Zayn looks up, leaning one hand curled around the wall corner for security.

Liam is grinning at him, face bright and crinkled. He’s in Batman Beyond gear because he’s a predictable sort of guy, but he also looks predictably really good. The softness of his belly and his arms looks good with the malleable plastic wrapped around it. His head is always silly-sweet in a cowl.

“Haha, Liam,” Zayn pokes the side of Liam’s costume where he knows it thins. Liam grins, catches his hand, tugs him a little closer.

Liam seems to look at him then, his brown eyes going wide and head tilting. Zayn’s stomach fizzes up.

“Hey,” Liam says. “You’re –”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, short.

“Marvel,” Liam finishes.

Zayn stills.

“Yeah?” he says again, breath feeling caught in his stomach. It’s not like he doesn’t want an acknowledgement but he’d rather maybe, it was something simple and easy. He’d rather everyone acted like this bit of Zayn was just like any other bit.

Liam smiles at him, round and directed, a compass drawn circle.

“Means we have to battle it out for control of this timeline,” Liam nods, rubs his thumb over the smoothness of Zayn’s elbow.

Delight springs into Zayn.

“I’ll win,” Zayn says, wraps a finger around Liam’s chin to shake his head a tiny bit.

Liam dimples for him. “You will.”

“That okay?” Zayn asks, feels like he’s asking if this is okay, maybe if he’s okay. Can’t bring himself to say anything else about it.

“Zayno,” Liam says, running his hands up and over Zayn’s shoulders, flaring out the cape like it’s caught in wind. The sensation swirls against Zayn’s back, makes him feel light. “You look gorgeous.”

Embarrassingly, Zayn flushes. He feels the heat all the way to his toes.

Liam’s eyes light up. He looks a bit amazed, like he can’t imagine he did that, or that Zayn did.

“Shush,” Zayn says, tucks Liam against him, wraps them close and _thinks I am so grateful I am here, I am so grateful you are here._

“Love the hair,” Liam whispers against his neck.

Zayn smiles small, presses his hand to the top of Liam’s shoulders, “Thank you,” he whispers back.

“Hullo! What’s this! Hugging! Without me!”

Zayn opens his eyes to Niall, rosy and grinning widely at them.

Zayn checks him over for a second, can’t help it. His cowboy costume looks like he was born with it. It’s probably not even a costume. Zayn’s pretty sure he’s seen Niall wearing all of it seriously at some point. Even the belt in the shape of Texas. Even the spurs.

The blue of the pressed button down makes his eyes look like small skies.

He laughs breathlessly, and opens one arm for Niall to launch into.

“Haz, get over here! Cuddles!” Niall shouts out as he wriggles into Liam’s side and Liam giggles back, like he just expects zir to pop up.

‘Course, Niall’s magic, so there’s almost instantly a familiar weight across Zayn’s back. The smell of vanilla and hazelnut presses him even more into the familiar array of Liam and Niall. The party swirls around them, but for a moment, Zayn lets himself be here, be steadied against the rocks of them, the cornerstones of his life.

He misses Louis.

Niall’s temple rubs against his, like he’s thinking the same. Sighing, Zayn rubs back.

Someone calls out for Liam, a hint of panic in their voice. Liam pulls away.

“Shit,” he says, looking incongruous, confused in a Batman costume.

Zayn presses his lips together so he doesn’t laugh. Harry doesn’t bother, laughs into his ear. Liam reaches over Zayn’s shoulder to flick at zir and then turns.

“Is it the tacos?” he calls as he heads into the kitchen.

“No,” someone calls back, sounding a lot like _yes_.

Niall _tsks_ beside him, side still pressed to Zayn’s, but surveying the party. Shamelessly, Zayn takes the moment to admire the lay of his collar against his neck, the sling of sunglasses in the V, which may or may not be purely aesthetic.

“I wear my sunglasses at night,” Zayn sings softly.

Behind him, Harry giggles, presses one large hand to the cinch of his ribs. Zayn looks down at it, feeling a little shocked. It frames the pulled curve of his chest well, the way the suit makes a something out of a nothing, not curved like boobs, but solid like armor maybe, like _something_.

It makes him feel a bit lightheaded.

A hand brushes his.

Zayn looks up to Niall’s eyes, back on him now.

“You look lovely,” Niall says, easy, enunciated.

Zayn’s heartbeat hurries to meet the beat of the music, throbs like bass.

“Thank you,” Zayn says, quietly.

Niall’s hand moves to fold over Harry’s for a moment. There’s an echo of Zayn’s gasp from behind him. Harry presses closer, hand curling strong against Zayn’s ribs.

It’s fine, he doesn’t need to breathe.

 He wonders if they can feel his heartbeat, trapped elated between them.

“Storm right?” Niall asks.

“Uh,” Zayn clears his throat. “Yeah, right.”

Niall’s eyes are dark, flickering from Zayn to Harry like he’s watching for something. His thumb runs along the line of where Harry’s finger curls around Zayn’s ribs and Zayn can barely feel it, swears he can feel it in his bones. Harry’s hand shakes.

“Badass chick,” Niall says softly.

And then he pulls away to slip on his sunglasses, eyes sliding behind mirrors. He smiles and turns to melt into the crowd.

They watch him go, frozen together.

The sides of it are battling in Zayn’s stomach; the sharp visceralness of Niall, _Niall_ , calling him lovely, casually playing with that line of gender and the softer, burning of Niall, _Niall_. It feels like so much.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry says behind him, harsh in that way that means ze’s feeling too much to not give it angles.

“Fuck,” Zayn echoes.

They stand still for a moment.

Zayn breathes in, holds it. Feels Harry’s hand still on him and breathes out shakily.

“We should uh.”

“Party, right,” Harry nods against the back of his neck. Zir curls tickle.

“Stop,” he elbows back into zir.

“I just said I was.”

“No, not –”

Zayn laughs, feels the tension crack between them.

Harry sniffles behind him, pinches at his hips.

“Babes,” Liam pokes his head out of the kitchen. He’s got salsa on one of his eyebrows, “Can you help with the platters? Sorry, it’s just the tacos keep cracking.”

“Good album name,” Zayn comments.

“Yes, Liam,” Harry says and nudges them forward, still digging zir hands into Zayn sides.

Twisting away, Zayn reaches Liam first, thumbs easily over the salsa splotch to clean it up.

“Whoopsie,” Zayn says softly as Liam’s nose wrinkles.

“God, how long was that there.”

“Not long, probs.”

Liam makes a sad warbling sound.

“Shh,” Zayn comforts, squishing Liam’s face in his hands, “You look mighty and –”

“Morphing?” Liam grins at him, or tries to, against the squishing.

Zayn grins back, “Silly.”

He leans forward to kiss Liam’s eyebrow a bit, rests his lips there as Liam makes a quiet happy sound. Zayn likes this, the way that Liam folds into him, that Zayn can fold over him. It’s a kind of subtle zing along his spine like, yes, here you are. He forgets about it sometimes, but it’s nice.

Harry comes up beside them, giving them a particular _look_. Zayn pulls away, goes to give zir a _look_ in return, gets sidetracked by seeing zir full on for the first time.

Everything is orange.

And sequined.

Everything is orange and sequined.

Zayn blinks at zir, like the mirage of orange and black and orange and sequins and sparkles will suddenly make sense.

It doesn’t.

Harry is tugging Liam into zir arms, kissing over the spot Zayn’s lips were, over Liam’s spongy nose, meeting his laughing for a deep kiss. There’s a faint trail of orange on his face when Harry pulls away.

Zayn is still blinking.

 “Off you go, Payno. Lipstick love,” Harry pats Liam’s butt, directing him to the bathroom.

Liam kisses zir one more time, looking blurry with happiness, and trounces off. Someone wolf whistles as he passes. He laughs back.

Harry gives Zayn a look again as ze thumbs at zir lipstick.

Zayn’s still trying to make the mirage make sense.

It’s a suit.

An orange and black striped suit with sequins like jack-o-lantern faces all over it. There’s no shirt, and where the fitted pants end, Harry’s tanned skin begins, gold against this much orange, only accentuated by the deep purple bralette ze’s wearing. The lace doesn’t cover much. Ze’s wearing pumpkin nipple pasties.

Most of zir hair is piled neatly into a tall top bun, painted a bright green.

A _pumpkin_.

“Amazing,” he says, quietly.

Harry’s moved into the kitchen, by the time Zayn gathers himself and follows.

Ze’s digging into the all the veggies that Liam’s left on the counter. Someone’s cut stuffed peppers into jack-o-lantern faces and the apples have teeth cut-outs. It’s cute. Zayn’s not gonna eat it, because there’s jello-shots with gummy worms on the table beside them and enough chips it’s excessive even for Tex-mex taste but. It’s cute.

Harry chomps down on the carrots like ze was waiting for them. The orange is darker than the orange of zir suit.

“I had a dream about this,” Zayn says faintly.

“You had a dream about what?”

“You. As a pumpkin.” Maybe he’s psychic.

“Awww,” Harry coos and pinches his cheek. “Baby, you know me so good.”

He can’t stop looking at the flashy lines of it, the sweet cut of the jacket that shows off nearly everything in a very good light. People are looking at zir starstruck, a little overwhelmed. It’s not like that’s overly unusual, Harry gets looks everywhere they go, unabashed and bright and loud as ze is. This outfit is quite _something_ though.

“Did you –” Zayn pauses, almost doesn’t want to ask, “Do all this today?”

“No,” Harry pops in another carrot, “I had the suit already.”

“Yes,” Zayn says, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Harry tries to put zir sticky fingers in his hair. He cackles, ducks into the living room to find one of the Davids to hide behind.

The house buzzes.

Zayn may not be the hugest fan of parties in his own place, but Niall runs a clean game, trash cans strategically placed in every room and doors shut with signs to not enter, most everything of interest like the turntables and the drinks outside so people congregate not by the kitchen or bathroom. Niall’s good at this, at knowing people.

Zayn pokes his side happily and leaves to steal more nachos.

There’s a cauliflower brain drip bowl set-up. He laughs. Liam pokes at his smile, grins back and tugs him into a game of _Operation_ with Andy and what looks like half the track team and some of the women’s basketball team. Zayn loses rather spectacularly, takes up position by the punch bowl and chats with Kehlani instead. She’s bright eyed and sharp against the smoothness of the rum laced lime. It’s in his shade of green and frothy like whip cream. It was made for him, really.

The party flows and wanes like all good ones do, people revolving in and out steadily.

Harry gets drunk.

Zayn watches zir a little more closely than he usually would, the way ze tips into Ryan and Bella and Kendall, before always, inevitably circling around to Niall. Sloppy, Harry presses against Niall, makes him laugh, but takes the hint when Niall turns his head away, flushed to the top of his cowboy hat. Ze circles back around and Zayn catches zir by the waist.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” Harry says, toning down in his arms.

Zayn presses his thumb to the line of Harry’s cheek, gentle to not disturb zir makeup, “I want him, too.”

Harry closes zir eyes and leans into him. He holds zir close.

“I just –” Harry chokes at one point, when they’ve moved to curl up on the beanbag in the corner of the room. The lights turn Harry into shifting complementary palettes. Like Harry is zir art.

The beat of the music makes Zayn want to curl up under a table and just breathe.

Niall is outside, holding court to loud cheers. They haven’t seen him in a while.

“I know,” Zayn says.

Even later, they get pulled into a complicated game of punch pong, which packs a bit more than regular beer. The added benefit, Zayn thinks as Harry throws up zir hands as Liam gets another one in, is that there’s constant arguments about the actual set of rules. He might say it’s because they’re too far gone, but generally, it’s just because they’re all from fuck knows where.

Regional Differences in Alcoholic Pastimes, Zayn thinks, and smirks around his cup.

Someone starts roasting pumpkin seeds and the smell curls like the threat of autumn. Zayn breathes deep.

Listing into Liam’s side just to see Harry puff zir cheeks out and shout, “Betrayal!” He laughs.

About the fourth game, Niall wanders by on the way to the big fridge in the garage. Zayn watches him go, the way Willie is beside him, telling a joke and the way Niall shoulders the ice bag coming back in like it’s nothing. Zayn starts a bit when Niall swings over beside him to squeeze at Liam’s love handles until he giggles, to press a big hand to Zayn’s back until Zayn wants to arch into it.

“Y’look good, hon,” Niall says, just loud enough over the music and shouting.

Zayn’s throat goes dry, even though he’s done nothing but drink.

“Said that already,” Zayn manages.

“Thought it again,” Niall says, eyes blue and intent.

Willie nudges him and they head on out with the ice.

Zayn stands there for a moment, leans discretely back against the counter by the still-on stove. His heart is echoing in his ears. The top line of his drink is wobbling.

There’s something a lot about it. About Niall complimenting something that Zayn’s done tentatively with this new found feeling inside his gender. Something about _Niall_ making it casual and intense and easy but not overlooked.

It feels like he may start crying.

He downs his drink instead.

“Put me on the next round, Payno,” he says, loud, steps forward and for one second, doesn’t care who looks or what conclusions they draw.

His stomach is on a roller coaster, but his head is already in the clouds, safe and watching the world. The suit feels good against his skin. When he shakes his head, laughing at Harry’s next throw, platinum lines the edges of his vision.

The night embosses bold in silver, stretches malleable around them.

They’re probably lit up so good Louis can look back and see them against the stars.

Eventually, the flow of the party ebbs, more people wandering out to not come back. Zayn says goodbye sloppily to Amira and Lauren and enough people he can’t quite keep track of them all. He lets Niall take the lead, flitting in between people like a firefly, ordering Zayn to clean the kitchen while Harry holds open the bag.

They prop each other up.

“Bed?” Harry whines to the house in general, somewhere after they’ve stashed the leftovers and Liam has wandered in smelling like fire and wood.

Niall waves them off from where he’s talking with someone, leaning against the door frame like he’s holding it up. Harry sighs, thankful, starts stripping off zir suit right there.

Zayn pulls Harry and him into their room, ignoring the slight hurt on Liam’s face. They’re not doing anything but sleep, Zayn thinks, petulant with alcohol.

They pull off their clothes, wobbly, taking record breaking turns in the bathroom.

Their bed is so nice.

The curtains wave gently as Zayn stares at them, upside down. Muttering, Harry flops down beside him, face first into the bed. For a long time, they lay there. Eventually, Zayn creeps his hand over to find Harry’s. He locks their fingers together. Harry squeezes back.

It eases some of the hurt, the distance that feels unfilled between them.

There’s enough space for one more, Zayn thinks.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly.

“Mm?”

“Hey,” Harry says again, propping up on one arm so Zayn can see the blurry shape of zir face in the dark, “You looked great tonight.”

Oh.

“Yeah?” Zayn feels his cheeks heat a bit.

“Yeah,” Harry smiles at him, leans forward to press a kiss to his smooth jaw. “Very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

Zayn wiggles against the sheets a little, tries to let himself feel the strange joy of it, tries to fall into it like that split second before, without feeling sick about it. He’s not sure it works, but. He’s glad he did it. He’s glad he went for it.

“I’m glad I did it,” Zayn whispers, like it’s a secret.

Harry’s smile blinds him out of the dark, “I’m so, so glad you felt safe to do it.”

Zayn closes his eyes and smiles, lays still so Harry can press small kisses into his cheek and his hair and his collar bones and the _Don’t think I won’t_ , curling zir hand over it afterwards. They fade into sleep like that, Zayn feeling held and supported and only distantly longing. October washes away in the tide of sleep.

He dreams of the ocean, of home.

 

*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second part of this work is currently in progress.
> 
> thank you for patience and for reading <33


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in an effort to remain accessible to people who may be interested in this verse from the prequel, [(i wanna feel like) fireworks in the night](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2530835), i have uploaded one version of the fic with sexual content and one without.  
> this chapter contains part 1 of the fic without sexual material, akin to t rating. please see chapter 1 for part 1 of the fic with sexual material.
> 
> please feel free to [message me](http://wepush.tumblr.com/message) for more details.

 

 

Niall finds him on the roof of the jeep. Its 2 AM and August, which means the temperature of the metal under Zayn's bare shoulders is finally just right and the air around them is a familiar heavy warmth. Zayn could fall asleep here, and has, too many times before, the air tucked up around his chin like a blanket.

Niall tugs at Zayn's hand as he starts to climb up the side of the car. Zayn steadies him carefully, mindful of how the wobbliness of Niall's knees mixes badly with the wobbliness of the aging jeep door.

They keep their hands tucked together after Niall gets up and flops down half on top of Zayn.

Niall squeezes once, brushes his thumb over the bird outline. Zayn squeezes back, lets his head rest back on the bike rack.

For a while, the only sounds are a distant folky bar gig and the not so distant June bugs. Texas has a funny way of always making him think he's back driving through hill country. Like a constantly developing roadtrip polaroid. He likes it. Steady and simple and splotchy around the edges.

"Love you." Niall presses a kiss over top the one already on Zayn's chest.

Zayn makes a basic heart across Niall's body, muscle memory, easy without looking. Right, left, center.

"Love you." he says.

"Doing alright, yeah?"

"S'okay." Zayn says, looking at the slope of the roof against the skyline. “How’re L1 and L2?” It’s a distraction, a left turn signal on the straight path that conversations with Niall usually take.

Niall taps his fingers sharply against Zayn’s hip, but he goes with the detour. Zayn squeezes his hand.

"They're fighting about something utterly meaningless. Probably a foreplay thing." Niall says. Zayn can hear him smiling. "We'll head back in and stub our noses on the door ‘cause Lou's got Liam pinned to it again."

He's always so easy about it, now. Zayn knows it wasn't always like that, but it's nice, it's so nice to see it now. Zayn endures a few tufts of hair to the face to kiss the top of Niall's ear. Under his hands, on top of his body, Niall giggles.

“I miss Haz,” he says, without meaning to.

Niall pulls up on an elbow and coos at him.

Zayn grimaces but allows Niall’s chin to dig into his chest. For a moment, he watches Niall watch him. He wonders what Niall’s seeing, always more perceptive than people like to believe. He supposes it’s easier to dump your baggage on Niall, say thanks and book a plane out, if you think he carries it like a trolley instead of a person.

Zayn watches Niall pick up what Zayn’s setting down, turn it over carefully.

Niall holds other people’s confessions like paper cranes of notes and memories made uncliché, tucked gently into his pockets for safekeeping and - and it makes Zayn’s heart hurt sometimes.

“Y’all okay, Z?” Niall says, almost not a question.

“We are. We’re, we’re us. Y’unno? But it’s – It’s just.” Zayn looks away.

“Much.”

“Yeah.”

Zayn remembers weeks curled together with Niall in a rickety twin xl, under a soft, soft patchwork made by Maura. Zayn remembers being surrounded by glow in the dark pillows, remembers reading Alice and Wonderland out loud like it would pull the absurd and sad from the reality around them and into fiction. Zayn remembers learning how to fall easily into someone.

Zayn remembers how different it was, later, with Harry.

 

\---

 

Zayn meets Niall first, because everyone meets Niall first. But he meets Harry second and he likes to think that's important, too.

Niall is 18 and bright like a fluorescent restroom light in the pounding static club of newschoolnewstatenewpeople that Zayn is locked into early freshman year. Niall takes him in, lends him some notes and takes him home.

Harry is 18 and bright like spotlights on the stage, a crescendo that lasts too long and staggers off the edge of the step with a roar from the black and blue and booze surrounding Zayn in late freshman year. Harry takes him in, gives him a dental dam and takes him down the rabbit hole.

Zayn is 19 and bright-eyed at the way Niall holds the neck of a guitar, at the way Harry tucks away curls like absent seductions, at the tacos on 38th street, at the way he can almost cup the potential of the present in his hands and feel it burning strong, strong, stronger.

That was then.

Without meaning to, without discussing it, they fall into something gently, fall into something gentle.

And now is –

Now is Zayn curled into the corner of their raggedy, dumpster diving gold medal of a couch, with a handful of undergraduate papers he’s supposed to be grading, watching Liam explain the steps of a proper pole vault to Harry over skype.

“It’s not a turn really, H. It’s more like a twist.”

“Ahh, so what you’re saying is I’m right.” There’s a faint clapping sound from the laptop. “It is a pole dance.”

“Harry.”

“Liam.”

“Har _ry_.”

“Li _am_.”

“ _Zayn_.” Zayn adds, refraining from Ed Murphy styling it, but only just.

Liam laughs back at him, torso turning enough that Zayn gets a glimpse of Harry on the screen, zebra yoga pants on and curls up in a scarf. Zayn eyes Liam’s matching bandana and soft sweatpants with a grin.

They’re such dorks.

Yoga is Harry and Liam’s chosen We-Are-Trying-Out-This-Queerplatonic-Thing skype date pastime right now. Harry and Zayn just have conversations or mild arguments, or sex. Zayn’s not judging, though. Usually, Harry and Liam do _naked_ yoga. He eyes their pants with a small hmph. One unseasonable cold front through the southwest and everyone thinks they’re freezing.

He buries his nose into the collar of his Stolen From Harry’s Drawer sweater.

“ – not what I said, Liam!”

Liam laughs again and does something weird with his legs, body bent strange.

There’s a distant sound of keys jingling just before the front door opens.

“Lucy!” Niall calls.

“Ricky!” Liam and Harry chorus.

There’s a round of giggles. Zayn smiles, smug.

Niall’s head pops around the hallway wall. His hair is down and windswept and his eyes are bright as ever. There’s a familiar vibration happening almost continuously from his cell phone.

Zayn shakes his head a bit and makes another mark on an essay for improper citation.

“Hey, Haz, Liam, Zayn,” Niall nods at them and then glances down at his phone.

“Hello.”

“Heya.”

“Mmm,” Zayn says, making another note about APA styling.

“You do know, Harry, that it’s 20 past 3, right?”

Zayn looks up from the Supposed Essay to see Liam doing cool down stretches and Niall holding up his phone pointedly.

“Absolutely,” Harry says, smiling.

“Great,” Niall says, smiling back.

Liam starts laughing, a little embarrassed-like and Zayn taps his pen. Harry’s forgotten something, then. He laughs quietly.

Liam breaks first, “That party? Josanna’s, I think.”

Niall _uhuhs_ loudly.

There’s a moment of silence as Harry freezes in messing with zir curls and Zayn licks his finger to flip the page. Their house is remarkably quiet for a college rental, really, Zayn thinks absently. They ought to get prorated utilities for that or something.

“Oh,” Harry says, finally.

The call beeps out.

Niall rolls his eyes as he walks into the kitchen, phone beeping a few more times.

Zayn watches him go. Popularity sounds exhausting, honestly.

Zayn is glad to be one of Niall’s best friends in more ways than he can goddamn count, but he’s even gladder that he doesn’t have to digitally keep up with him.

Snuggling back into the couch, he draws a paper up to flop on his stomach. He clicks the pen a few times and sinks back into messy Hurston analyses. He crosses out every other adverb he finds to the gentle tide of Liam and Niall talking in the kitchen. They’re talking the latest football scores. Short of pop punk, the best background noise.

It’s a good day.

He’s just finishing up with the last essay when something freezing drips down the back of his neck.

“Fucking hell!” he jolts up from the couch in a mess of flying papers.

A loud cackle explodes behind him.

 _Louis_.

Zayn turns to glare, even as he’s swiping at the water on his nape.

Louis is curled against the back of the couch, slushy in hand, decked in a denim jacket over a strange woven sweater and black jeans. Alright, cold front in the third week of September it is, but this is becoming ridiculous.

“I hope you melt,” Zayn mutters darkly.

Licking his lips, Louis winks back at him, “Thinking ‘bout oral cleanup so early in the day, Zayno?”

Zayn rolls his tongue for a second, helpless against imagining it. Louis and him are good in bed. And in a car and in a van and a bathroom and once, memorably, Zilker Park behind a sparse line of bushes. There’s something Zayn likes about the push, the way Louis can jump from at ease and easy to bold and on a roll.

But, Zayn can do that too.

He pulls his hand away from the back of his neck to lean it on the couch back next to Louis. He balances on a knee as he crowds into Louis’ space smoothly, lets his eyes go hot and sharp.

Louis watches him, a smirk curling his lips slowly.

“Are you?” Zayn asks, quiet, careful.

Louis’ eyes flicker, more blue than usual today, bright and eager.

Something twists strong, hot, in his stomach. He leans forward more, puts their faces close enough Louis’ breathing almost tickles his scruff.

“No,” Louis says.

“No?”

“Not at all.”

Zayn eyes the line of Louis’ jaw, familiar and still so new.

“Still no?”

“Nuhuh,” Louis grins and tilts his head. It lets Zayn know it’s okay to nudge closer, to press his lips to Louis’ jaw line and marvel for a second before leaning against the couch more and nosing into his ridiculous jacket. Being with someone who’s demisensual isn’t any different than not, Zayn thinks. S’all negotiation and understanding. Maybe waiting a beat longer than he would otherwise.

Louis sways them back and forth and Zayn knows he’s not doing it intentionally. Staying still is hard for someone who counts minutes like orchestral movements. Louis leans his head on Zayn’s.

“Missed you,” he says, soft and vulnerable.

Zayn clenches his eyes tight.

It’s only been a few days since they’ve seen each other. Only been a month since Louis moved in. This is the first time they’ve really noticed Louis’ regular trips out to New Orleans to check in on Lottie. It’s not the first time Zayn’s realized just how much Louis cares about people.

“Missed you too, Lou,” he says.

Louis sighs out, quietly.

They sway for a moment, just feeling.

The noise in the kitchen rises, Niall’s usual laughter even louder and gigglier. Liam’s own sounds like hiccups of joy. Zayn grins.

Ridiculous.

He loves living with his best friends. He loves that their friendship is so ridiculous and bright and uniquely them. He loves that they’re all comfortable enough to hug and kiss and curl up together on their couch and that they have traditions like swirls of color and zest in the routine of monotonous college life.

Louis lifts his head and Zayn can feel him practically scenting the air.

He laughs and bites at his sweater.

“C’mon then,” Zayn slides backwards off the couch, “I know when I’m second best.”

They’re good as friends and good as friends who have sex, but they’re not LouisandNiall good.

Louis reaches for his arm to pinch, so Zayn thumps his wrist bone. Inhaling sharply, Louis catches Zayn’s eyes as he leans forward again and pinches sharp at Zayn’s forearm. The sting tingles almost, rushes like good espresso.

Then Louis grins, “Don’t be a moist falafel.”

“Nooo,” Zayn laughs. “Stop.”

Louis starts off for the kitchen. “Moist, moist, moist. You guyses are too easy.” He bounces a bit each time he says it.

“It wasn’t funny the third time.”

“Yes, it was,” Louis says, unbothered.

They walk in to find Liam digging his fingers into Niall’s hips, both of them curled against the far counters, dinner ingredients haphazard and half opened on the tops. Liam’s laughing too, the sound drowned out by Niall’s hysteria.

“Ooh,” Louis crows, “My favorite.”

He could be talking about the tickling, Zayn thinks as he side steps towards the pantry for gummy bears, but he could also be talking about Niall in general.

“Noooo,” Niall whines, hiccupping.

“Yesss,” Liam and Louis say.

Zayn digs out his gummy stash from behind Liam’s clif bars and kicks the stubborn pantry door closed.

Louis is watching Liam still curled around Niall, with a smile so enamored, Zayn whispers, “Be careful, your face’ll stick like that,” to him.

Louis continues smiling, “I have no notion to what you’re referring.” He plonks his slushie down on the table and then steals Niall away by pinching Liam’s nipple so hard he yelps. They kiss as Niall’s laughing anew, snapping into each other easily, like magnets brought close. Louis’ hands grip tight into Niall’s shirt.

 _Uhuh_.

Zayn eats the yellow gummies first.

“Yuck,” Liam says.

Zayn hands off the bag for a second, eyeing Liam to make sure he knows what’s not on offer, as he heads over to the sink.

“No reds, got it.” Liam pops an orange into his mouth.

“Good boy,” Zayn says casually, to watch Liam flush out of the corner of his eyes. They’re not partners or anything, but Zayn enjoys the underlying element of d/s in their friendship. A lot.

He turns on the water for a second and watches Louis push Niall back against the counter, their kisses syrupy slow and sprinkled with small whispers. Niall is the only one of them Louis will kiss at all, let alone kiss like a softness made tactile.

“He gets it, is all,” Louis had said once, curled up in bed with Zayn after some pretty top notch handies.

Zayn hadn’t asked _gets what?_ because it was pretty obvious he wouldn’t really have gotten the answer, if Louis could even word it. It’s wasn’t his thing to understand.

Now, Niall holds Louis’ face carefully, kisses precise and focused, shallow like a period romance.

Awful.

Zayn turns the nozzle spray on them idly.

Louis screeches and Niall yelps.

Wow. They can jump really high.

“Fucking Christ, Zayn!” Louis glares at his sopping jacket and then back at Zayn, but his eyes are bright.

Liam chokes a “Ha!”

Niall dissolves into laughter again and Zayn’s chest goes soppy and strange. He pushes it down and laughs loudly back. He wonders briefly why he feels this smug and satisfied. Wonders why he wants so badly to pull Niall against himself, before he pushes it away.

“Oops,” He says, brightly.

Dinner is a sad excuse for a casserole because they’ve all collectively been arguing about who’s turn it is to go shopping.

Everyone is a bit too talkative that night, happy to have Louis back and Louis happy to be back. It’s his turn to do dishes and they all linger a bit, settling back in. Ignoring the space where a bunch of curls should be, where a loud horse laugh should tumble in, feels harder than usual.

They should all be home.

He skypes Harry, afterward, phone wobbly on his chest as he lays down in bed.

“Hey, babes,” he says, as Harry comes into view.

Ze’s in the middle of dressing, phone balanced haphazardly on the dresser.

“Hey, hey.”

“Out again?”

“Mmmmm,” Harry drawls.

Zayn rolls his eyes and tucks the blanket around his feet better.

“How’d the showing go?” Harry’s been talking about it near constantly, the workspace, the gallery calls, the contacts ze needs to impress. Zayn’s not worried really, ze’s a natural with people – no matter their inclination towards or against zir. Too charming, by half. But he does want it to go someplace, wants people to see how much Harry cares, even if ze is political and polite about it.

Harry tilts zir head. Bobby pins stick out of zir mouth. The camera cuts off the edge of zir waist, but Zayn can see the braided belt, the way zir skinnies cut into zir lovehandles. He smiles.

“Good,” Harry says eventually, still picking at zir hair with pins.

“But?” Zayn prompts.

“It’s like, people get it, but they don’t wanna engage with it?”

“Ah.” Frustrating. “Gonna go on a rampage about it?”

Harry sticks a pin in and drops the rest on the dresser, zir hand looking strangely giant for a moment. “Maybe. Iunno.”

“I think you can, if you need to.” Not that Harry needs his permission to get mad at cis people for being unwilling to address the actual themes of Harry’s art.

“I think I need these people to renew my internship application for next sem.” Harry turns around to dig through a pile of clothes on the ground.

Zayn spots a t-shirt he knows they argued just last week about Harry taking. “Mhm!” he hums loudly.

Harry freezes and then squirrels the pile away behind the bed, leaving a trail of socks.

“I fucking knew it,” Zayn says, kicking his feet.

“You know nothing!” Harry shouts, “Nothing!”

“Thief!”

Harry blows a raspberry at him and tugs on a shirt with frills.

“Good god,” Zayn says, properly distracted.

“It’s lovely,” Harry sniffs.

“Okay,” Zayn lets it go, some battles aren’t worth it. “So you’re off to shmooze with the art elite, make some pointed comments with a smile?” Zayn does love when Harry gets intense and cutting and unavoidably polite.

“Yes,” Harry leans over to grin into the camera, giving Zayn a nice view down zir shirtfront. Harry’s phone buzzes then, shaking the call and making Harry frown over at the bedside clock. It’s a whale, with the phrase ‘a whale of a time!’ blocked above it. It’s ridiculous and awful and Harry will surely bring it back and put it on their bedside eventually.

Zayn looks forward to it.

Harry cusses loudly and Zayn watches zir begin a flurry of item collecting. Ze picks up a scarf and wraps it furiously around an ocean of curls and comes back around to bend over and faceplant into the dresser top.

“You late?” Zayn stifles a laugh.

Harry sighs, face a blur smushed against the phone, “I’m late.”

“Love you,” Zayn says rubbing his finger against the bumps of his phone case and wishing it was the line of Harry’s cheek.

“Love you, too, Zaynie. Night.”

“Night.”

And Harry’s off to do more industry-artsy things that Zayn doesn’t quite understand, but smiles about anyway.

Zayn curls himself into his pillows and pulls out his worn copy of _nejma_. The words float up around him like the sun gone to the west, the end of the journey home, the end of a day run too long.

He’s studying Lit and he can feel it in his bones like ink gone iron, built up layer by layer over too many 500 word deadlines. He can feel it in the way he goes breathless seeing Harry stretch out on the couch with _Time Traveler’s Wife_ , 17 chapters in, and crying. The way Liam ducks his head a little when he asks for recommendations, and then leans over the books Zayn hands him, so intensely, finger moving across the page and lips mouthing words. The way that students, looking like fresh picked apples knock nervously on his door, always starting with an ‘uhm’, but leaving calm and settled.

He argues with his advisor in their meeting that Tuesday, “I think it has potential.”

“Zayn,” Layan sighs, fixing the line of her hijab, “it’s not that it doesn’t have potential. It’s whether it has enough secondary material to support the potential.”

Zayn runs his finger along the edge of his portfolio and doesn’t answer. The clock in the corner counts the seconds like an excited 1st grader.

It _does_ have potential.

Layan sighs again and then taps the desk, “Bring me 7 sources and I’ll sign off on it.”

Zayn grins cheekily.

She glares at him, cheek twitching with a smile, “They better be good, Malik. I’m gonna be hypercritical like hell.”

Zayn slips his portfolio into his bag and pushes back the chair, “Of course,” he says, easily. “See you Friday. Oh, and the exams are in Asam’s inbox.”

Layan makes a put upon sound and the blaring sound of Spice Girls follows him out of the room.

He laughs as he waves to Asam, who’s putting in their earphones with an eyeroll. He likes working with both of them. They’re more real than the other staff, less like the old wrinkled white paper they all study, and more like characters come to life.

Zayn hums as he heads back home. The roads are nice and uncrowded at 2.30, that golden in-between time, and it’s enchilada night.

He walks into the living room to a messy pile of boys in the center of the carpet.

“Oho,” he steps over Louis’ legs from where he’s leaning back against Niall, who’s full out laying on Liam, “Anything fun happenin’?”

“Complaining our utmost about academia,” Louis says, around a mouthful cheetos. His hand is orange up to his wrist.

“Niiiiice,” Zayn does an air high-five and settles on the couch. Then yelps and digs out his phone from his pocket. Nearly 3. Almost time for Haz’s daily lunch snaps. Ze’s a fucking dork. A kale loving dork. Zayn smiles.

“I just think they should appreciate my honesty,” Niall continues.

“Too right they should, Neil.”

“Niall’s advisor meeting,” Liam explains to Zayn, looking fairly content being smushed.

“Ah. You switching still?”

Niall sighs heavily, still nearly drowned out by Louis’ munching.

“Same,” Zayn says.

Zayn remembers his switch from English to Lit to Fine Art back to Lit again. This last time, he legitimately thought his advisor was gonna cry. Niall’s been pretty consistent though. Communications all the way up until a few months ago when the usual frowns had become a little more sour. He’d put the meeting on all their calendars with a quiet, “Just thinking, yunno.”

They’d cuddled him a bit.

“What’d you tell em?” Zayn asks.

“I hate it,” Niall shrugs like, _what was I supposed to say_.

Liam makes a breathy sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh. Louis and Zayn don’t bother with the sigh.

Niall grins up at them for a second, then drops his face into Liam’s stomach.

“Ooof,” Liam pushes at Niall’s head.

“Noooo,” Niall whines.

“I have class.”

“So do I,” Louis says, throwing up another cheeto and catching it easily in his mouth, “Skippo, Payno.”

“It’s a science req,” Liam tries to wriggle out from under Niall.

“Don’t prove his point,” Zayn says to Liam, leaning across the coffee table to steal the red bull on the table. Dibs just means getting to it first, really.

Liam makes a quiet, sad sound and Zayn’s stomach clenches for knowing what Liam’s sad sounds sound like. He looks over to see Liam’s chin ducked, one hand tangled in Niall’s hair, holding him close now. Liam’s hoarse when he continues, “I failed last sem, though.”

Zayn reaches for him at the same time Louis and Niall do.

College is hard.

College is hard in the same way that walking up an uneven set of stairs is or swimming a lap in a lake with overgrown kelp or baking an upside down cake with only one cup of flour is. Cycles and cycles of work and monotonous, unequipped attention needed. It’s never, ever gonna be fair or right that college is even harder for Liam, who tries so, so hard at every single cycle, who always searches for the good in every go around. Liam, whose unwavering grilled cheese and snuggle support is half the reason Zayn makes it through his own godawful exam weeks.

College doesn’t make sense.

Niall starts singing _Stand By Me_ softly and they curl tight around Liam to hum all the way through it.

Liam clings and they let him.

Zayn worms his way under Niall’s side to tuck his hand behind Liam’s head. His mohawk has gotten a little scruffy, the shave feathering out against Zayn’s hands. Liam mumbles something nonsensical and Louis shushes him a bit.

Something about Liam like this, seeming so small curled under them, twinges something in Zayn’s muscles, makes him wish he could tuck Liam into his arms and tell the rest of the world to fuck off, fuck off, _fuck off_ from him.

It reminds him of seeing him the first time, the sad slump of his shoulders and the twist of his fingers in his grey sweater. Winter, and Harry had turned zir head to follow Zayn’s glance. Had looked for a long moment and then kissed Zayn’s cheek and gotten up. Pulled Liam to them, gently, intently.

He misses Harry. Misses the three of them the way the three of them are. Like nothing Zayn’s ever had before this.

Zayn presses a kiss to the side of Liam’s head.

Niall makes a quiet sad sound.

Ah. Time for Liam to go, then.

“Love,” Louis says, low, “time to go.”

Liam sniffs a little bit, shifting like he’s trying to lean into all of them at once for a moment. Then he nods against the scritching of Zayn’s fingers.

“Kay.”

“You want us to go and throw apples at the prof?” Louis says, intentionally nonchalant.

Zayn leans his head against the soft of Louis’ arm for a second.

“No,” Liam says, a bit livelier, “but thank you.”

“Course,” Niall says. There’s a smacking sound and Liam sniffs a giggle.

“We’ll be here, when you get back, yeah?” Zayn whispers against the curve of Liam’s cheek.

Liam kisses the top of his ear like a butterfly’s goodbye.

Mumbling goodbyes, everyone untangles reluctantly. Liam gathers his backpack and ball cap, and with a soft reminder from Louis, “Practice, today, Payno,” his cleats and shorts. Zayn leans his head against Niall’s and watches the set of Liam’s shoulders as he goes out the front door with a _bye-ya_.

“Bye,” they chorus as the lock clicks.

They lay on the floor for a couple of minutes, quiet. When Liam goes, he takes something with him, always.

“So,” Zayn starts eventually, and clears his throat, “what are you gonna do?”

Niall makes a soft sound, “Dunno, really. Just, not this.”

“Totally fine,” Louis says, firm.

“Yeah, but.”

But Niall’s always known his own direction. Niall’s own sense of true north has guided Zayn through forests before. It’s scary, silly, how the simplest of things that used to be certainties can still change. Like fifth grade, when Maria Chang moved away and left Zayn without a best friend in crowded, pencil graffiti’d walls.

He wishes 22 meant knowing better.

Louis’ gone back to munching Cheetos, not bothering to sit up to eat. Orange flecks float to the carpet. Zayn would say something, but it’s Liam’s week to vacuum.

“So,” he crunches, “What do you want, Nialler?”

“I don’t wanna talk about people like they're 20 second news bits,” Niall says, wearing grumpy like it’s his favorite leather jacket. 

Zayn smiles. “I never thought you would’ve.”

Niall huffs and starts braiding a section of Louis’ hair, Louis steadily sitting up to allow him access. The plaits are tiny and tidy in a way that none of the rest of them, who grew up with siblings that actually wore plaits, can manage. Zayn hands Niall a daisy bud from the miscellaneous bowl on the coffee table to weave in at the bottom. Louis kisses Zayn’s shoulder, grinning.

Niall’s hands pull Louis closer. They turn into each other easily, kisses turning intense and smooth.

Zayn loves watching Niall with Louis. Loves watching Louis with Niall. Loves watching the way they play with each other, the way they echo each other loud and clear but still soft and gentle.

He remembers the feeling of Niall crawling onto the couch with him, 5 months ago, the morning after that night at Paul’s. He’d been grumbling about the early hour as Niall had slid in the room like he was following the sun.

“Afternoon, actually,” Niall corrects, “you missed brekkie.”

“Bah,” Zayn tells the cushion.

Niall nudges under his chin, tucks their bodies together, humming loudly. Zayn sighs quietly at the feeling of them aligning. There’s something very underrated about the basic familiarity of someone’s body, Zayn thinks. How you can simply _know_ the curve of their shoulder or the dig of their favorite steak shaped belt buckle. Or their overactive molecular structure.

“You’re vibrating,” Zayn drags a sleepy hand across Niall’s shoulder and arm. It’s nearly bouncing up and down, jostling them both like a happy boat. Niall’s lucky Zayn doesn’t get lovesick, really, or he’d have to pitch him overboard.

There’s a vague affirmative noise from somewhere under his chin.

Zayn can’t even be too bothered by Niall coming in and dipping himself into the pools of the couch. Niall’s ripples are always warm and worthwhile.

A mumble tickles against his neck.

Zayn giggles and squirms a bit, “Stooop.”

Niall giggles back against him, “Noooo.”

They exchange lazy knee bumps and half-tickles. The living room is warm, crisp in that new day way, before realizations have overcooked the corners or gotten to the good squishy middle bits. Morning it may not be, but it’s still good. Zayn would argue, even better for not being some dreaded time like Harry O’Clock or Liam Alarm. He tells Niall this by nosing his ear a bit.

He gets a kiss to his collar in return.

“I’ve got a secret,” Niall says, quietly.

Meaning something new, soon to be shared with all of them.

“Yeah?”

Niall nods, rubbing against Zayn’s scruff.

“Gonna share, bub?”

“Louis,” Niall says, like that explains it all.

Zayn lets the word sit between them a moment, tests the weight of it on his tongue silently and thinks maybe it does. He smiles too big into Niall’s hair.

“ _Babe_.”

“I know,” Niall says, breathless and beautiful.

Zayn knows then that Niall’s in love.

Louis moves in with Niall a month later. And by August, they’re all living together.

Sometimes Zayn thinks, of course, _of course_. Sometimes he thinks, of course that would be too easy. Because the first Thursday in September, Niall makes Zayn strawberry waffles for breakfast and Zayn looks at the familiar line of Niall’s impossibly straight teeth, bright and showy in their kitchen, and thinks _please_ , thinks _forever_. The first Thursday in September, something settles on Zayn’s shoulder and refuses to leave.

He shrugs it off, patches over it for the beginning of semester, for Niall’s birthday, to try and settle into the month, to watch Niall over his birthday cake, a firecracker the focus of the entire world, blowing out lesser candles. He pushes it away in the middle of the night when his bed is empty and the sky is crawling into his window, but -

Now he’s here, watching Niall and Louis settling each other, their touches like skin made into touchstones. He’s here and he’s so happy. But he’s so confused.

Niall laughs into the curve of Louis’ neck and it’s not that Zayn wants to be in between or be one of them, but he wants something, wants that tinge of _something._

That’s scary too.

In his darker, more aware moments, he wonders if it would have changed anything if he had gone to that breakfast. If he could have waylaid the place in Niall’s heart that Louis slid into like a home run.

In his lighter, more confused moments, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what the fuck is happening to him.

Zayn gets up quietly and leaves them there, closes the door of his bedroom quietly and leans his head against it for a long time.

His proposal needs work and Safaa asked him to call after her dance practice and he meant to text Danny back about some stupid video he sent of him and Ant doing an installation in that Bay studio he can never remember the name of and he needs to read at least 4 articles and then he’s got to go over discussion questions for his T.A. seminar on Monday.

“Sleep,” he reminds himself.

If he has time.

The week is a blur of trying to stay on top of everything. The air feels crisp and ready for death which Zayn overly sympathizes with for an hour while he’s supposed to be grading papers. He doesn’t avoid the boys or anything, but he doesn’t seek them out either, passes by Niall on the 24th as he’s on his way to the mosque.

“Eid Mubarak,” Niall says.

Zayn smiles back at him, “Eid Mubarak.”

“We good for tonight still?”

“Mhm,” Zayn hums, hip checks Niall a bit.

He misses home, always like a low key thrumming in his bones, but particularly now, on Eid.

Misses the assembly line of samosas and the rolling laughter tucked inside the corners of his parents house, all the Aunties together and loud in shalwar kameez, packing presents and food to give away, misses Urdu smooth and curling around their jokes and joy, misses the way Safaa swings their hands together on the way to prayers, looking bright and bold and proud, misses looking around and feeling strong and sturdy and _belonging_ , but, this isn’t terrible either.

Liam always grabs the lamb because it’s on his way from work and Niall turns over the kitchen easily to Zayn’s hands. Louis’ seemed good about it, nose pressed to his phone screen on youtube spirals for biryani.

They sit together outdoors and Zayn prays and they work their way through the Bollywood section of the Netflix queue. Harry texts him a bit, _Eid Mubarak_ , _I hate this gallery owner_ , _How was the gift haul for the kiddies_ and _Love your smile_.

It’s nice, but it’s not home.

He spends a long time on the phone to back home, curled in his bed, just listening. Doniya keeps a running commentary, pulls a pocket of the moment for him to tuck into.  

On Friday, he does some back sourcing for a bit, which leads to a vague literary meltdown where Layan has to assign two more books to LIT 4332, which means Zayn has to read two more books. Which means he spends enough time over the weekend in the school café, one of the baristas offers him a sympathetic look like he just got dumped.

He goes home after that, wallows a bit in his bad temper.

Harry flies back in on a Monday.

Theoretically, Zayn could go get zir – but airports are gross and Austin traffic on a Monday afternoon reminds him of the time he accidentally stapled his finger to a bit of poster board.

“Can’t,” Zayn says, when Niall asks. He’s in the doorway, ballcap lopsided from Liam messing with it before he jumped off for practice.

“No?”

“Nope.”

“You know,” Niall leans his hip against the door jam and Zayn’s eyes flicker towards it before he jerks them back to the t.v.

His stomach twists strangely.

“What,” he says, instead.

A buzzing sounds loudly, Niall’s phone going off. He brings it up and clips out a message without seeming to use mortal fingers to type it out.

“You know,” he says as he brings it down again, “Can’t never could.”

Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Haz won’t die because I’m not at the airport.” He kicks his foot. Why’d Harry have to come in on a Monday afternoon, anyway. Ze usually flies back on a Saturday, and then everyone goes out that night and then Harry and him get to have a lazy, messy Sunday in bed.

Keys clink from right beside him. He barely manages not to jump.

Niall stares down at him, grinning like he knows.

“Yes, Niall?” he asks, sickly sweet.

Niall leans in and kisses his temple. As he pulls back, he whispers, “I know you know to take Pleasant Valley to 7th to hook onto 71.”

Zayn tilts his head to kiss Niall’s temple back, “I know you know better than me.”

Laughing a bit, Niall sighs.

Zayn’s not worried, Niall’ll do it. ABIA is his favorite airport and Niall’s a sucker for airport hugs. Also Texans have some strange love of traffic pain, it’s almost like Niall thrives in the driver’s seat, cussing at other people, AC set to arctic chill. Unlike Zayn though, Niall gets out of the car and it all fades away and he’s a polite member of society again.

There’s another loud sigh as Niall laces up his sneakers.

“Buh-bye,” Zayn waves.

“One day,” Niall tugs on the tongue of his shoe, “You two are gonna have to learn how to not be childish, because I won’t be around to be your kindergartener-go-between.”

Childishly, Zayn flicks on the TV sound. Explosions start echoing in the room.

Niall twists the front door lock loudly, “If you don’t like zir coming back on a Monday, just fucking say it, huh.” He leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Zayn presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes until stars burst along the black. He needs to figure this out, needs to understand what the fuck he’s feeling. Needs Niall to not be able to read him so good.

And maybe it’s childish, Zayn thinks as he flicks through DVR’d football games, but Saturdays is what he and Harry had agreed on. He’s not sure why it has to change now.

He sighs and settles on an old episode of Mythbusters.

The sound echoes strangely in the empty house and Zayn curls further into the raggedy quilt he’s stolen. It smells like all of them, feels like home.

Liam tumbles home first, sweaty and looking worn from practice. Zayn shoves over on the couch to let him curl close and damp after his shower. Fingers rubbing slow circles over his tense shoulders.

Liam mumbles something grumpy.

“Same,” Zayn says.

They stay like that until Niall and Harry bang in some time later. Zayn’s been drifting and he can tell Liam has been too, by the way he jerks at the door slamming open.

“Hey babe,” Zayn says.

“Hey Ha –” Liam gets out before ze launches zirself at them.

It’s a mess of kisses and limbs then, Harry peppering Zayn’s face and Liam laughing and then ze getting sidetracked and peppering Liam’s face. Zayn laughs then and breathes in the smell of Harry, cinnamon perfume, this time, like autumn’s finally rolled on in. He presses his face to zir neck and kisses a bit, just because it’s there.

“Hi, hi, hi,” Harry kisses.

Distantly, Niall is laughing at them and then his phone is ringing and he’s walking off into the kitchen. Next to his face, Liam and Harry are getting sidetracked kissing, progressing steadily into making out. Zayn feels that same rush he always does when he sees Harry kiss someone, when he sees Harry and Liam do anything together.

He rubs his thumb along the line of Harry’s jaw, lets it skim over their joined lips before following along to the line of Liam’s jaw. They groan for him, breaking apart slickly only to come back together, rougher, Liam biting at Harry’s bottom lip.

“Lovely,” he whispers.

He leans his head on Harry’s shoulder and knows that Liam will be with them tonight. It’s good, great even and Zayn’s already planning how he can lead both of them through it, gauging how deep they’ll feel like going from the way their limbs cling.

But it’s also a little bittersweet under Zayn’s tongue. He hasn’t had Harry back in weeks.

Mondays.

He sighs against Harry’s skin.

Louis gets home late, so they delay dinner – Harry and Niall arguing about the best honey mustard to have with chicken burgers – until he gets in about 9. By that time, Harry has flitted from one of them to another, cornered Zayn in the hallway by the bathroom and let him basically maul zir hips and neck with his hands and teeth – so he’s feeling a little more magnanimous.  

Louis is prickly too, stressed from a day spent with too-happy 6 year olds.

“Cretins,” Louis hisses, as he crowds up against Zayn on the floor in front of the couch. He kicks Harry’s shin to make zir put zir hands in his hair.

But he also pulls out his phone, “Look, Alli made me a noodle sculpture of a platypus. Then,” he says proudly, “threw it at DeAndre’s head.”

Zayn laughs and lets Louis rile them all up, bouncing back and forth between annoyance and nipple twisting joy. It helps, to have Louis around now, lets Zayn feel like he can let someone else rock the boat and bite at people. They have a light condiment war in the garden and Tamar and Joy from next door keep score.

Harry takes Zayn’s hand and refuses to let go.

He’s calm when he goes to bed, is glad for it, because he knows fucking better than to dom upset. He pushes Harry down onto Liam and keeps them pinned together, makes the night slow and deep and so, so good.

They’re fumbly after, noodles that Zayn coddles and kisses and sets with water bottles against the pillows. Zayn brings in Liam’s batman blanket from his room, tiptoeing past the music going in Niall’s room, a tinge of hoping they weren’t too loud. Harry curls against the front of him, when he gets back, babbles _I missed yous_ and Zayn holds on tight, whispers _we missed you too_ , for Liam and him and for Louis and Niall.

He goes to sleep easily.

He wakes up less easily to Liam nudging him out of bed for brekkie.

 _Ugh_. Mornings.

He stumbles into the dining room, everything feeling blurry at the edges. He likes Liam’s days to make breakfast, likes the way he tries to experiment. Today it’s some kind of quiche done with a lot of cheese. It’s good, he just wishes it wasn’t in the morning.

Zayn eats with his chin against his coffee cup, vaguely watching the way Harry keeps squirming in zir chair and the way Liam’s limbs still look like his muscles have gone elastic. Louis watches him watching and not-so-discretely high-fives him.

“Oh honestly,” Niall scoffs, glancing up from his phone as it buzzes endlessly.

Harry presses a chaste kiss to Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn wanders through his classes and meetings that day with a serene smile on his face. A couple of freshmen give him strange looks and he smiles wider. They scamper off.

That night, him and Harry go out, just the two of them, because Harry’s only got an advisor meeting at 4 tomorrow and Zayn’s class can afford being missed. Louis eyebrow waggles them out the door and Zayn sticks his tongue into his cheek in return.

He’s still laughing a bit when they get to Elysium. There’s a local band playing tonight, because there always is in Austin, but he doesn’t catch their name, too caught up in the way Harry’s hips move and the way Harry’s nails are just long enough to catch against the back of Zayn’s neck when ze pulls him close.

The lights are a furious red tonight, almost thick enough to drown in. The floor sinks and they follow it, down, down, down.

He splays his hand on Harry’s lower back and lets Harry hand him shot after shot. Harry kisses the taste of alcohol out of his mouth and then they start again.

“Gonna keep up tonight, San Fran?” Harry shouts in his ear.

“Gonna shut up tonight, L.A.?” he shouts back, twists his hand under Harry’s incredibly sheer shirt. Ze’s got pasties on, four little butterflies because Zayn had tapped his fingers against the extras laying on the bed and raised an eyebrow at the two Harry already had on. Harry had cackled and complied and Zayn had run his hand all the way along zir spine like a promise.

“Mmm,” Harry hums, with the bass of the song, “Make me.”

Zayn pulls Harry’s chin up and makes zir.

Harry makes a sound that gets lost in the sea of bodies around them.

They start the shots cycle over again, until the only thing Zayn can focus on is the percussion in his feet and the rolling of Harry’s hips in his hands.

Ubering home is a challenge.

Zayn hangs onto Harry’s hand like it’ll stop the world from rowboating away and ze mutters comments about the state of the other people milling about, like ze’s got any room to talk. Harry slathers his neck in saliva when he mentions it. Their driver pops bubblegum as they watch Harry and Zayn tumble in. By the time they’re up to 30th though, the driver is laughing at something Harry’s said, grinning when Zayn calls zir an idiot.

They pay and get out with a few genuine “Have a good one, man”s and Zayn smiles smug against Harry’s hair.

Part of the thrill of them partying is always in the way people get a thrill out of them partying. They’re gravitational.

“We’re so good, baby,” he slurs against Harry’s ear.

Harry rubs against him, making soft, cut-off sounds.

“Shhhh,” he says, too loudly, as he finally gets open the door and they stumble in, nearly taking the hall-stand out.

Harry giggles.

They stumble into their bedroom and flop down on the bed.

Zayn lands on Harry’s hair and ze hisses, shoving at his arm.

“Fucker!”

Zayn laughs hysterically and presses his face into Harry’s stomach. Harry paws clumsily at his hair and he hums.

“Good feel,” he mutters.

He doesn’t realize he’s drifting until there’s a distinct hacking sound and the too-loud flush of a toilet.

Harry crawls back into bed a few minutes, maybe a lot of minutes later. Zayn is staring at the ceiling and it doesn’t have the time on it. Ze smells distinctively sharp and it makes Zayn’s stomach roll in kind.

Zayn wrinkles his nose and kicks weakly at Harry. “Gross. No.”

Like he’s any better, smelling of the cigs they had after the club, and the vodka before that and whatever blue thing was before that.

Sure enough, Harry says hoarsely, “You’re not any better, bo...”

Zayn frowns at the ceiling, “I’m not Bo.”

There’s a wiggle beside him, but turning his head feels like it might be a really bad idea.

“Bo…zo.” Harry finishes.

Zayn closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. It doesn’t make it better. “Take. It back.”

“Take it to the bathroom,” Harry says, muffled like ze’s head is under the covers.

“No,” Zayn says, because words feel slippery and his stomach has started a continuous conga that probably means Harry is right and Zayn hates when Harry is right. “Fuck.”

“Ha.”

“Fuck,” he says again.

His stomach twists dangerously, that edge of truly too much threatening to eat his throat the longer he stays there.

Harry snores beside him, already out.

“Fucking shitting fuck,” he whispers, barely a breath.

His bathroom journey is even less graceful than Harry’s, if that’s possible. He catches the edge of the doorframe with his shoulder and the pain of it makes him gag, and then he’s clutching the toilet, off balance because he’s gagging for another reason.

He stays there too long.

He hates the toilet.

He loves the toilet.

“You are my only friend,” he tells it, around the third round.

“But you’re not very nice,” he tells it, around the time he hits his head on the tank trying to stand up and has to immediately drop back down for round five.

He brushes his teeth messily, feeling like forever wouldn’t be enough to feel clean and steadies himself against the wall back down to the room. Closing the door too loudly, he winces and then grits his teeth as his head complains about wincing.

He grabs two waters from the mess on the dresser and falls heavily on the bed.

“Guh,” Harry grumbles.

“Water,” Zayn elbows zir side.

“Nngh.”

“Water,” Zayn demands and drops the bottle on zir.

The morning is going to be hell enough without making it worse. Harry is a grumpy shit hungover. They’re well matched, really.

He fumbles open his own water and drinks it half propped up, half swaying. It spills messily.

Harry is pawing sluggishly at zir bottle as Zayn finishes all he can manage of his. He takes pity and grabs it to twist open, spilling little enough it feels like an accomplishment. Harry gulps sloppily, leaning heavily against Zayn. He kisses zir head gently and drops the crumpled bottle off the side of the bed when ze finishes.

Harry clings to him and he resigns himself to waking up in pain for various reasons.

The sun is in a bad mood the next day too, blaring down on Zayn at whatever time his bladder decides it is not waiting a second longer. Him and Harry are into some out-there stuff but watersports really isn’t it. So, Zayn squints his eyes angrily at the world and rolls very, very carefully out of bed.

He manages the bathroom through a series of cusses and deep breathing routines. He also vows never to tell Liam and Harry that their routines actually work.

It’s not the worst he’s felt, but it’s not great either.

Niall gives him an indecipherable look as he stumbles into the morning – afternoon, whatever – sun of the kitchen, but magically plonks a plate of waffles down on the table.

Zayn croaks a thank you. 

“Uhuh,” Niall says and goes back to cleaning the kitchen counter. He can’t help feeling like Niall knows something he doesn’t. But he also feels mildly like death and it sounds like too much effort to worm it out of Niall.

Niall’s a rock anyway.

Quietly, Zayn takes his plate back down into their room and struggles to slide open the window before crawling back into bed. He eats steadily, knowing he’ll regret it if he doesn’t, alternating with sips of water. He pops two Advil at the end and congratulates himself for managing the whole bit, “Yayyy.”

Zayn checks his email later, bored from being unable to fall asleep, but too gross to do anything of value, curled pathetically with a snoring Harry and a dulled headache.

There’s two from research groups, one from his advisor about a funny goat video, and - one from his professor, requesting to meet personally, later in the week, concerning his absence this morning.

He stares at it for a moment, trying to make it make sense, and then back tracks into his file folders clumsily, looking for the course syllabus. He tracks his thumb over the awful pdf, thinking again that it’s fucked up accessibility rates lower than extra credit for participating in the professor’s personal research – and finally finds the calendar.

He thought it was just a reading day, boring, redundant talk about whatever shitty article they were doing this week. He was sure it was, it’s September, last Wednesday of September.

The calendar stares back at him: _Day 1 of Roundtable Presentations_.

He must make a sound because Harry mumbles against him.

Panic claws down Zayn’s spine.

“What wrong,” Harry manages, face smushed to Zayn’s chest.

Zayn drops his phone on Harry’s head, ignoring zir _OW_ to try and breathe in through his nose and not do another trip to Friend Toilet.

Fumbling with the phone, Harry pushes up on an elbow unsteadily and squints at the screen. Ze stares for a long moment and then places the phone gently down on Zayn’s neck.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

“Fuck,” Zayn agrees.

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

The day’s a bit shit after that.

Harry and the lads clear a wide berth after the second time someone mentions something innocuous to Zayn and he responds with a vicious, “Get fucked.”

Louis is the only one who seems unbothered, rolling his eyes and throwing his remaining pickle-chips at Zayn’s head.

Zayn very graciously gives him the finger and doesn’t throttle him.

Meanly, too meanly even for the asshole level he’s cruising at today, he thinks the reason Louis doesn’t give a shit is he already has too much experience with missing classes and messing up his college career. It’s not like he has to explain to expectant parents and uncles and aunts and grandparents that the reason he’s flunked a req is because he was barfing his life up.

He screams into a pillow for a short bit just to see if it helps.  

It doesn’t.

But at least it makes him weary enough to answer back to the email, say he’s available at 2PM tomorrow or 1 on Friday. He lays there for a while, blaring a sad Spotify playlist he knows both Harry and Liam can’t stand.

Eventually, there’s a knock on the door. Louis’ voice comes through loud and clear, “Dinner is served, if you’re done being a dickwad.”

Zayn wraps a fist around his anger and shoves up to open the door, “Maybe you should back the fuck off, before someone decides to make you.”

Louis looks at him, unimpressed.

It makes Zayn angrier.

“Fuck off.”

Louis leans against the door frame, relaxed-like.

Zayn breathes in sharply and tries to resist shoving him back. He’s close enough that Zayn can smell he must’ve helped with whatever dinner is, and that it has garlic.

They always do dinner together when all of them are able.

Zayn grits his teeth and focuses on the anger clouding up inside his ribs.

“Harry feels like shit,” Louis says, blandly, “and Niall feels like shit that Harry feels like shit and that you feel like shit.”

Zayn’s chest clenches. “So?”

“So maybe you shouldn’t fucking take out your anger on the people you love most when it’s not their fault you fucked up.”

“I didn’t fuck up, you shithead.”

“No?” Louis raises an eyebrow and it’s smooth and dangerous.

“No.” Zayn grips the door and resists slamming it.

“Did Harry or Niall or Liam fuck up?”

Zayn’s hand clenches around the door, “Who cares.”

Louis smiles and it isn’t nice. “I do.”

And Zayn, Zayn knows that. He knows Louis cares about them. He cares about them collectively in a way that Zayn can’t ever quite get a grip on, like it’s a fortress with smoothed walls 20 feet high. He knows it’s got to be taking something big and ugly for Louis to be here, to take Zayn’s volleys like Zayn isn’t an integral building block of that defensive wall.

Zayn takes a deep breath and Louis watches him quietly, mouth in a sad line. Zayn really doesn’t want to make Louis cry.

He doesn’t want to be an asshole to them. He just doesn’t know how to stop. Getting away from them is probably the best thing, for all of them.

“Think I shouldn’t.” he says, swallowing hard, “I’ll just go out for a sandwich or something.”

Louis’ face goes blank and unimpressed.

“What?”

“If you do that, it’ll make –“ Louis pauses, “them feel even worse.”

Zayn’s temper flares again, “So what, I can’t do anything right? No matter what, I’m the one fucking shit up?”

“No,” Louis snaps, “You can’t fucking do anything right apparently. Got your head too far up your own ass to be able to give a shit. Literally.”

“Wow,” Zayn drawls, spine feeling rigid and caked in electricity. “Witty.”

“Someone’s got to be, since you’ve made everyone else cry themselves out.”

The heat leaves Zayn’s body like it’s been sucked away. His skin goosebumps involuntarily. Louis wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.

“I –”

“You.” Louis agrees.

Zayn leans against the door.

Fighting with Louis is pointless because they’re both always looking to win but it’s never really a fight with a winner. No matter how it comes out, Zayn feels like shit. And yet, he can never seem to stop doing it.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

Louis exhales shakily. Zayn watches his hands clench and release a few times.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

“I’ll come out.”

Louis nods a bit, jaw working hard. “If you –”

“I know, Lou,” Zayn says, and he does.

If he lashes out, Louis will step in again. And it’ll be harsher. More final.

“Fine.” Louis shoves his hands in his pocket and turns back down the hallway.

Zayn watches the line of his shoulders go.

He pulls away from the door slowly. His hand’s gone tense and strained. Opening and closing it a few times, he stares at the wall blankly, feeling acutely shitty. He’s still got a headache and his stomach isn’t happy and his heart feels all at once smashed and overlooked.

“Maybe you shouldn’t take your anger out on the people you love most,” Zayn repeats. 

Louis is a lot more emotionally literate than most people give him credit for, Zayn thinks. Then, he frowns and has a moment to wonder why Niall was included in the list of who feels like shit if not Liam and Louis were.

“Probably just ‘cause he’s more teary,” Zayn whispers.

Whatever, Zayn’s a shit, they’ve all put up with him incredibly today. He lets it go.

He sighs and leans his throbbing head against the wall. Then, he closes his eyes and makes his way down to dinner.

Niall looks at him with red eyes and a clear face and Harry looks at him with red eyes and a blotchy face and Zayn feels his eyes prickle even as his spine tightens and tries to rally his temper. He shoves it down and forces himself into his usual chair.

It’s silent in the kitchen. Some kind of meat and greens on the table and Liam in the bathroom and Louis with his arms crossed, leaning back in his own chair.

“Sorry,” Zayn says and it sounds too loud.

It’s not enough.

Harry sniffs and launches at his side. He catches zir like a reflex and curls his arms tight around zir. Niall is still watching him from the counter where he’s pouring drinks.

Zayn stares back, looks at the lines tight around Niall’s blue eyes, somehow made more aqua by the redness, the hand-tugged mess of the bottle blonde.

“Okay,” Niall says, like Zayn’s just said something about the weather. He turns back to finishing the drinks.

Ridiculously, Zayn’s eyes prickle.

 _You don’t have a right to feel sad_ , Zayn tells himself furiously. He blinks a lot and holds Harry tighter.

Liam toddles in, and smiles at Zayn gladly, easily. Zayn forces a smile in response.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Zayn whispers into Harry’s hair. He wishes he was brave enough to say it loud, wishes it didn’t feel like something in Niall’s shoulders will remember that he wasn’t brave enough.

His stomach hurts, but he eats dinner steadily, compliments the chef like Trisha is behind his shoulder.

Niall smiles at him and says, “Thank you.” Then he turns back to speaking with Louis and Liam about the latest player stats.

Zayn looks down and chews steadily; holds Harry’s hand too tight.

He doesn’t throw up after, and it feels like an accomplishment.

The next few days are like some sick game of ping-pong. Hit, Zayn has to talk to his professor, reassure him he was ill, he can catch up, just give him a chance. Hit, Zayn spends 3 hours in the weak morning sun working out the unhappy lines of tension in Harry’s body, post-run. Hit, Zayn runs into a block finding sources he knew he just had, where the fuck did they go. Hit, Liam tucks Zayn close on the couch and lets Zayn lean against his shoulder for all of a Lord of the Rings extended commentary. Hit, a wreck on Guadaloupe makes everyone in Austin an even worse driver. Hit, Niall leans over his shoulder as he’s doing dishes one evening and kisses the hinge of Zayn’s jaw.

“Okay,” Niall says, like Zayn has given a rounding, passionate speech.

He pulls away quick, goes back to the porch to keep tapping at his laptop.

Zayn sets down the plate he was scrubbing at. Then, he braces his hands against the edges of the sink and cries.

His eyes spill hot tears too fast and he chokes, tries to be quiet about the mess of it.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks and struggles to breathe.

Louis finds him there, with enough time passed that Zayn’s hands have dried and his eyes ache.

He looks up at the touch to his wrist.

“Love,” Louis says, quietly.

Zayn tips himself into Louis’ arms and lets Louis hold him together.

“Shh, shhh, shhhh,” Louis says and rubs his back.

He’s vaguely aware of Louis maneuvering them carefully, reaching around Zayn to turn off the water Zayn hadn’t realized was still on, Louis nearly tripping on the tile-carpet separator to the hallway as they go to the living room. Mostly, Zayn’s aware of the ragged sound of his own chest and the way Louis’ shirt feels in his clenched hands.

Louis sets them both on the beanbag, lets them curl tight together and sink in.

Zayn cries himself to hiccups.

Louis stays with him and doesn’t complain about getting his favorite Green Day tee wet and snotty. Louis really loves him a lot.

“You,” Zayn sniffs at some point, “coddle your students like this?”

“Yes,” Louis says, easily.

Zayn gives a wet laugh, “Okay.”

And it is, maybe. It is okay.

They’re okay.

Zayn didn’t break them, he realizes, with a silly burst of relief that night.

It’s S’mores And More in the backyard today and Zayn is rolling joints for them like normal and Niall is flipping burgers like normal and Harry is dancing with Liam like normal and Louis is cackling like normal and they’re okay.

He offers Niall the first hit and tucks the smile Niall gives him in return in his hand, holds onto it.

He dreams of clouds that night, of floating gently up, up and up until he finds a donkey floating next to him, eating a radish.

He wakes up laughing and giggles his way through the day, feeling refreshed.

He’s almost tempted to make one of Niall’s color coded lists as he gets shit done: check, check, check. He fairly shimmies into the door that evening, reminds himself absently to call Ant and Danny soon.

Everyone is in the living room.

Zayn sways around the floppy mess of Louis and Harry curled in front of the couch and Liam’s heeled booties sticking out from under the coffee table. Niall is draped over him like a knobby blanket, hair flat and magically gone sky blue in the few hours since Zayn last saw him. Shaking his head, he flops onto the couch and stretches out. Might as well put it to some use.

His roommates and furniture, honestly.

Liam mumbles a hello to Zayn and there’s a metallic sound from under the table.

Niall says, “Heya Zayno,” and then tilts his head down under the table for a second, “No, Li that’s the nut not the screw.”

“Screw you,” Zayn choruses with Liam.

Louis cackles and applauds.

“Fuckers,” Niall laughs and wriggles on top of Liam.

“Ohh,” Harry is mumbling, “That’s a good one. I’m gonna send that to Tay.” Ze practically balances zir phone on zir nose to type at it.

“Where _is_ your squash?” Louis drums the baseline of _Wake Me Up When September Ends_ on Harry’s back.

Zayn scratches his nose against the couch cushion and tells himself to stop letting Louis pick the road mixes. It is a fair question, though. Zayn hasn’t seen Taylor around much, which is weird for Harry being back for over a week.

“Squish,” Harry corrects, “but we prefer z –”

“No, a zucchini is a squash. I’m sure of it. Zayn told me so.” Louis says, pinching Harry’s side.

“Oh!” Harry laughs and tucks zir chin into zir chest. “Good one.” Harry says, and means it.

 Zayn would meet someone’s eyes to share a look of despair but Liam’s nodding like he’s in lecture and Niall is laughing too. Zayn loves a bunch of tangerines. 

“Taylor’s got a thing - like see, we were down at the charity art showing for Travis County – they have a lot of really cute Labrador puppies, not nearly enough fosterers, just so everyone is aware,” Harry says.

“No,” Niall says, firm like he only is when the sanctity of a clean rug or noise curfew comes into question. Zayn smirks into the pillow he’s flopped onto for the duration of Harry Storytime.

Harry pauses long enough to pull an ‘I’m sad about this and I’m letting you know by showing sadness with my whole face’ expression and then continues on breezily, “The shelter charity art show wants to expand their artistic repertoire so they’re asking for performers to volunteer, too. Taylor signed up.”

“Does this mean we have to put a Harry performance on our calendars, too?” Zayn turns his head to watch Niall kick his feet from where they’re thrown over Liam and the beanbag.

Harry huffs, back too straight and nose in the air.

Zayn waits.

Louis drums a bit more. The sound echoes like Harry is hollow. Maybe Harry is a bird. That would explain a lot, actually.

“Fine,” Harry says, finally, like someone was pressing zir. “Yes. But more than that, are any of you going to give to the cause?” Zir eyes narrow.

 _Or else_ , Zayn finishes in his head. Too serious about small things, Harry is sometimes.

“Sure,” Zayn flops a hand. It’s not a huge deal. He’ll go in on Harry’s performance and keep to the side. People’ll hardly notice him.

“Yeah!” Liam pops up from his place under the table. “It sounds great, Haz.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and catches sight of Niall leaning into Louis’ side, precise like. Louis’ shoulders tense. He frowns a bit. Niall whispers something into the dark space of Louis’ neck. Louis’ mouth twists.

Zayn curls his fingers into the raggedy couch cushions and reminds himself it’s not his business. Still, he looks up to watch as Louis presses a kiss to Niall’s cheek and noses into his bright blue hair. Niall smiles like the sun peeking out between pearly white, dentist-straightened clouds and Zayn pulls his eyes away forcefully, turning his whole body.

He ends up looking straight at Harry, who is looking straight at him.

“What,” he mouths, defenses prickly.

Harry purses zir lips, bringing up one hand to rub freshly manicured floral nails across zir chin slowly. Friday. Spa day with Taylor, Zayn remembers. In his calendar as “Viva (la) Spa Day,” a play on the name of the spa that Harry still finds funny after two years.

There’s a tap on his ankles and he looks up to find Harry giving him an eye.

He shakes his head.

Harry nods, insisting.

Zayn sighs and tries to smother himself with the throw pillow that still smells like that time Liam bumped Niall’s bowl of chili onto it.

He wishes Harry was less Harry sometimes.

The same way he wishes Louis was less Louis sometimes, but he wouldn’t want either of them to ever change because he also doesn’t know what he would do without either one of them anymore. They balance something in him he didn’t even know was off kilter. Similar in ways that Zayn doesn’t know how to word, but has spent afternoons curled around the neighborhood cat in their hammock out back, trying to parse out enough to get it down in a moleskin.

Louis and Harry, whose hands Zayn can trust himself to fall into, to thrust into, to draw on idly - who are both sharp and oblivious in turns, and brilliantly, breathtakingly gentle and cognizant in others.

Harry and Louis, who like to show him food carts and ticklish spots on each other and Liam and Niall and who smile at him like he’s remade the world, post flood, just for them to be born into.

He pulls the pillow away so he can take a few steadying breaths and comes face to face with Liam, tongue out and eyes wide.

“Fucking hell,” he shouts as his body tries to jump. He ends up kneeing Liam in the ribs.

“Oh god,” Liam wheezes and draws back a bit to curl over.

Hysterical laughter blooms from behind them.

“I’ll kill you all,” Zayn threatens.

They laugh louder.

Zayn watches Liam try and regain his breath and feels at least a little better that Liam got what he deserved.

Liam glances at him, eyes red rimmed and hand curled around his middle.

Zayn smiles sweetly at him, “Help me get them back and I won’t,” Zayn pauses for effect, “have to punish you for this.” He trails a finger up Liam’s arm carefully and watches his pupils dilate. Zayn knows, from well tested experience, the inside of Liam’s elbow is almost too sensitive. He runs a nail over it delicately and Liam shivers violently.

“Okay,” he rasps, finally.

Zayn smiles smugly and kisses the end of his spongey nose.

“Now, get off me.”

Liam skitters.

Zayn leans his head back more comfortably against the couch lumps and sighs.

They’re supposed to go out tonight, someplace Harry’s picked up from a friend of a friend, someplace a little more fancy than their usual Paul’s level of grunge. Zayn’s not unhappy, but he feels worn. It’s been a week. And Sunday will be Harry’s last day here and then Zayn will be alone in their bed again.

Then, Zayn will be alone with whatever this sticky, tacky feeling is in his chest.

He wishes he knew anymore how to be good on his own.

Zayn loves Harry. He loves zir so much. But sometimes, sometimes he wonders what it would be like to not, to not have that strange almost uncomfortable jolt in his stomach at just the thought of zir. He doesn’t know if that makes him a bad person or just a person in a romantic relationship.

Later, he watches Harry fixing the, like, 60 straps of zir dress and thinks it’s a fairly accurate allegory for them. Too many supporting lines, too much pull, too much too much.

Still, he smiles encouraging when Harry checks in the mirror for his approval.

Harry stares at him for a moment, tall and gorgeous and perceptive. Zayn hopes ze isn’t seeing what he’s feeling, squashed and rough-edged and ugly. “You’ll let me know, when you’re ready to talk about whatever it is?”

There’s no tension to the air, no building pressure but Zayn’s inhale catches sharp in his chest anyway. Harry looks back to the mirror, fixes a tiny smudge of plum at the corner of zir mouth.

“Yeah,” Zayn croaks out. “Yeah.”

He pulls Harry close and kisses zir senseless, presses thank yous into zir skin and hopes they go deeper than the fingerprints of bruises still there from earlier this week.

They go to Mai Thai, first, because Liam wants plum wine and they’re all soft for him and anyway the coconut shrimp are –

“Fucking delicious,” Niall smacks his lips.

“Mmmmm,” Zayn agrees, closing his eyes as he bites into another.

The other customers give them looks every now and then. Whether it’s because Niall is moaning or he is, or Louis is or Harry is, or because of what everyone is decked out in, Zayn doesn’t know or particularly care. Liam’s dress is leather and cuts off into fringe short enough that it’s not even in danger of touching his knee high boots. Louis is wearing a shirt that is clean and actual, legitimate leather pants. Niall’s got on a broken-in leather jacket, a shirt that shows his nipples every other move and real live cowboy boots. Zayn catches the reflection of his own floral button down with leather accents in the window and smiles.

They’re a little themed. They look damn good.

Zayn is a little smug, the whole night.

He drifts from one of them to the next, handsy and giggly. It’s okay though, they’re handsy and giggly back.

Skylark is jazzy.

Like, actual-live-jazz-band-playing jazzy.

Harry claps, delighted.

“Well,” Louis says, and pulls Niall to the bar by his collar. Zayn tucks his chin over Liam’s shoulder and slots them together to follow.

The night burns crisp and floppy like a developing polaroid and Zayn loves, loves the way they are. He kisses Harry for so long his lungs ache. Harry smiles, wicked and sweet and spins him back to the floor for more.

Sometime around Zayn’s umpteenth gin and tonic and 3 of his buttons coming undone, Liam and Niall squish them all into a cab and tip them all home. The cabbie has purple hair.

“You should,” Zayn says into Niall’s neck, “pretty, too.”

“Yes Zayn,” Niall says.

All of them stumble coming into the house, which means they all end up sorta flopping onto the middle of the living room floor and laughing their drunk asses off. The room is a lot more colorful and spinny than Zayn remembers.

Someone covers him with something soft and breathing. He curls around it and someone curls around him. Another person nuzzles into his hair.

He could really, really get used to this, he thinks, as he floats off to sleep.

The morning burns hot against his eyes as he stumbles from dreams into Niall cooking waffles.

“B’ueb’rry?” Zayn mumble-asks.

“Advil,” Niall says, quieter than his usual morning glow.

Zayn realizes Niall’s using the waffle-maker instead of the stove like normal. He nods his head in agreement and then stops nodding immediately.

He takes the Advil.

Everyone toddles in a bit worse for the wear, floppy like over-grilled tomatoes in the Texas heat.

“I miss temperatures sustainable to human life,” Louis says, face pressed to the table pathetically.

Liam groans an agreement from his place on top of Harry, zir face also pressed to the table pathetically.

They’re themed again, but for some reason it’s less fun now.

The day passes sluggishly.

At some point Liam is gone, so he must drag himself off to practice somehow. Niall disappears for a bit too, but then Harry finds him in the tire swing and raises enough commotion to wake him up and save him from the sun’s “dastardly plans.”

“Good job, H,” Zayn gives zir a weak thumbs-up.

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis reminds them, from his bean-bag fort.

Privately, Zayn covers his smile with his I Am Being Pathetic Blanket, and agrees.

Finally it’s dark enough they can pretend to have done something worthy of going back to sleep.

Zayn’s sleep is molasses, slow at the edges, colors drawn on too long to feel anything but overdone. He wakes up possibly more tired than before, but only as light-sensitive as usual.

“Okay,” he relents to Liam and Niall.

The three of them settle in the living room with $200 books and grim looks.

Niall talks through the history portion of the afternoon, and Liam talks through the psychology and Zayn talks through the rest. Gradually, Zayn’s head slips further and further down until the cactus stitching in Niall’s daisy dukes presses at his forehead. Niall smells like fresh air and sandlewood.

He stays there for a chapter, breathing deep.

“Z, what’s this mean, again, sorry,” Liam sighs from beside him and Zayn scoots up to rub at Liam’s clenched forearm.

“Here,” he directs, “it’s pretty simple.”

They celebrate with curry.

Haz texts the group with a ‘ _Go ahead, please. I’ll be home later xx_ ’ and Zayn rolls his eyes, laughing, when Louis responds with a mix of banana and poo emoji, ‘ _2 much froyo mkes ur stuff all green hazzaroll, bware ~_ ’

Niall sits on the counter as Louis and Liam fuss over the curry and chicken, with Bressie on call. They’re talking something about flowers for Eoghan, some game of floral one-up-manship Zayn doesn’t understand, but admires from afar nonetheless. It’s sweet to see the way they work, Niall and Bressie queer platonic and both Niall and Bressie with romantic partners, but it’s all different than how that works with Harry and Zayn and their others. It’s cool.

Somewhere, someone has left a bad Spotify playlist running and a vocalist keeps droning on about oranges.

Zayn tucks his thumb to the bend of Niall’s knee and smiles back at him.

Later, after Louis has smeared yellow curry halfway down Liam’s neck and then licked it off and Liam has flushed and excused himself from the table, Niall comes out of his room in something blue and sparkly with silver stars, hair a tousled loveliness.

Louis whistles loudly and Zayn’s throat goes dry. He pulls out his phone to give himself something to do.

Louis and Niall are going on a date.

“Off to Never Never Land,” Louis shouts, swaying Niall out the front door by the hips.

Niall’s laughter trails back like a half-forgotten melody.

Zayn leans his chin on his palm and thumbs open his messages, forces himself focused. 4 from his mom in varying states of, _I hope you’re doing well, but if you don’t answer soon I am on the next plane to Texas to twist your ear_. Zayn smiles and types out a cleaned up version of this week. He snaps a picture of their decimated dinner to Waliyha to show to her and clicks through to everyone else’s stories.

He gets caught up with Harry here is all, feeling like he needs to focus all his attention because Harry’s always gone between one blink and the next. Like a 4 year old, tucked into bed, he has to keep his eyes open so nothing can slip away. Like, it’s zir last day here, and yet ze’s out with friends at some yuppy froyo place.

Zayn sighs and swipes through the official snap stories.

“Oh,” he mutters, out loud.

National Coming Out Day. He’d forgotten, even though Niall had put a little reminder on their joint calendars with a lot of heart eyes emojis. Grinning, he taps the icon and an explosion of cheering from some dark party rings through the kitchen.   

He laughs and clicks down the volume.

All the stories are sweet, people pressed close to each other and kissing or crying or kissing and crying. A lot of flags. Zayn admires the gumption of the person pole dancing in their living room while their friends scream encouragement.

Liam slams open his bedroom door and Zayn glances up as he comes into the kitchen.

“’Kay babes?”

“Yes,” Liam exhales, “Fine. Great. Wonderful.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows and just says, “Okay,” mildly.

Liam jerks open the freezer and begins muttering, “…like we haven’t had 12 practices this week.” He slams it shut and then presses the frozen water bottle to his face, looking fairly pathetic. Zayn’s lips twitch. Chest puffed out, Liam wanders off into the living room and then wanders back out with his sports duffle. “…show up in a sundress next time,” Liam grumbles as he tosses his cleats into the bag, moving back down the hall.

Zayn bites the inside of his cheek and glances down at his phone as a distraction. Someone is standing on the capitol steps, waving the aromantic flag.

Liam fusses loudly with the front door and then calls back a mopey, “Bye, Zaynie.”

“Bye, Payno,” Zayn calls back, sounding a little choked.

He barely manages to last until the door clicks shut before he’s laughing, curling over the table a bit. Maybe he shouldn’t, but the repetitiveness of it is too funny for words. Every other Sunday, like clock-work.

He grins to himself as he watches the rest of the story.

One of the last videos is someone wrapped so fully around another person, Zayn can barely tell where one’s green hair ends and the other’s brown begins. They’ve got a trans flag pulled close like a blanket. Zayn’s smile softens and he clicks up the volume in time to hear, “…for supporting me in my transition, and for being the best, best girlfriend in the world.”

The other person laughs and says, “I love you for being you,” and then a little softer, “and for helping me find out my own gender.”

The video cuts off to another one of someone singing, a parade, a group of friends toasting, then back to the main screen. The story swipes out of sight.

He sits there for a moment replaying it in his head. It was gorgeous. It was easy. The way their voices went gentle and whole, talking about their gender, like Zayn sees sometimes in class when someone genuinely, truly loves a text.

Zayn gathers up plates and sets them on the counter. He flicks on the tap, testing the bubbly-strange-warm feeling in his stomach.

He thinks it must be incredible, is all – getting to feel that feeling of gender euphoria, delight in your own unique youness and then having that understood by your partner, reflected back and smiled about.

His phone blares beside him and he splashes water over the counter. It’s Danny.

“Vas happenin’?” Zayn drawls as he juggles the phone to the crook of his shoulder.

Danny laughs, talks about nothing, talks about fixing up the ‘93 corvette they found the other day, about the paint can that exploded in Ant’s face on Friday. Zayn laughs and misses them.

The front door jingles as Danny’s talking about the new girl he’s dating. He waxes on about the way her hair, her eyes and Zayn can feel himself getting sappy and gooey like over cooked rice.

Good timing, he thinks, as Harry calls out a “Hoooooney.”

“Hey, Danny,” Zayn starts, feels a little bad about cutting him off, but not bad enough to not want to drop the phone on the counter and just go to Harry already.

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny chuckles, “go on, you horn dog.”

Zayn blows a raspberry at him and drops the phone on the counter. He makes a slight detour to dig to the back of the what-not drawer for one of the sample things of lube that they seem to keep around like leftover condiment packages and then he’s in the hallway and Harry is still standing by the door, waiting.

Zayn eyes zir for a moment, and Harry watches back.

Ze is all bright penguin patterns and long necklines and bare shoulders, tattoos a spread of watercolor across zir shoulders. And Zayn can’t count the number of times he’s kissed zir skin or held zir hand under the needle, knows the shape of all the shapes of Harry – the bambi, the moth, the humming birds, the capitvating geometrics, the bits they share. He loves Harry so much, it feels painful in his chest, too much to hold onto.

Harry is leaving tomorrow.

He breathes deep and tries to hold on. He moves forward and leans around Harry to the door.

“We having sex?” Harry asks, casual.

“We’re having sex,” Zayn nods, and flips the lock. He leaves the thing of lube open on the side table. “You need a mo’?”

“Nope,” Harry shakes zir curls.

They stand still for a moment, just looking at each other. Then, Zayn reaches out a hand to push Harry back against the wall and Harry goes like liquid.

Zir eyes close tight, and then open.

They come together hard enough to jostle Zayn’s head and he doesn’t – he doesn’t care, at all.

It’s hot and messy and frantic.

After, they stay pressed together for a bit, Zayn letting Harry cry, letting Harry decompress, letting Harry wander off into a soft place where zir shoulders go soft and eyes go half closed. Ze smiles like a spring morning, all damp and stunning and so perfect Zayn doesn’t want to move. He endures the stabbing in his knees to press numb kisses to Harry’s temple and cheeks, whispering nonsense, whispering praise.

“So good, so lovely, love how you love it, love you, thank you.”

Harry makes soft, half-gasping sounds back, clinging.

Eventually, he smooths a curl back behind zir ear and murmurs, “Okay to move to the bathroom for clean-up, babes?”

Harry bobbles zir head, letting it drop down to Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn wraps one arm around Harry’s waist, the rumpled edges of zir skirt lopsided against his skin, making him smile, and grabs the used lube packet from the side table with one hand. He says a quiet “Oops” as it dribbles a little on the wood, cleans it up with the heel of his palm.

“C’mon,” he says.

He steadies them both to the bathroom, trashes the wrapper. He takes off Harry’s bra and rubs carefully at the indent line. Harry sighs almost continuously against him, still low and settled in zirself, the quiet place ze goes where comfort is like a sunpatch. Zayn knows ze likes this just as much as the sex, the aftercare, the caring in all forms.

He switches on the shower, lukewarm and helps Harry out of zir skirt. It probably needs to be just as washed as Zayn’s pants. Sad, the state of them.

He laughs and Harry giggles back at him, eyes closed and swaying like their happiness is music.

Zayn presses a kiss to zir forehead because he can’t not.

Harry rubs zir nose against his chin.

Pulling off his clothes to add to the pile, making sure Harry’s bra is hanging carefully on one of the hooks – god knows how many lectures he’s gotten about lingerie care – he guides Harry gently through a very quick rinse. Ze’s sensitive, shivering against his touch, hand reaching out to his wrist for a second.

“Just real quick, H, sorry baby,” he reassures, nose against zir head, the shower almost drowning him out, “Not doing anything, just getting clean, remember?”

“Kay,” Harry says, faintly, but keeps zir hand around his wrist like a lifeline.

Zayn’s quick, washing over himself one handed and flicking the shower off. Shivering against the sudden rush of air from pulling back the curtain, he directs Harry over the tub edges, tapping the back of one thigh at a time.

Harry puts zir weight on his hand and steps carefully, eyes wide at the ground.

They really need a different tub, honestly. It’s dangerous in small situations that always prickle at Zayn. Liam’s stubbed his toe so many times trying to shower after heavy workouts and Niall doesn’t say anything but sometimes he glares at the tub edges with his hand wrapped protectively over his knee.

Zayn pulls Harry’s silly tie-dyed towel off the shelf and rubs for a second at the edges of zir curls where the water caught. He moves to zir neck and arms, then down to zir chest and tummy, following the curves with his thumbs a bit. His heart catches as Harry breaks off from zir soft humming to giggle at him, eyes bright.

He kisses zir nose.

“Did beautifully,” he reminds, because he can.

Harry smiles, wide.

He finishes with himself, his green towel that clashes against Harry’s in a way that makes him smile, and gathers up their laundry in his arm and Harry in his hand. The space where Harry’s ribs turn into zir tummy rolls is so nice against his hand. He squeezes a bit.

“Mm?” Harry blinks at him

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Zayn smiles at zir, reaches around to get at the light. Nudging Harry out the door and towards the room is easy, ze moves like pudding, like a dancer playing the swan on the lake. Zayn feels a little clumsy in comparison, dropping their clothes in the basket and pulling water out for them both.

“H2O, bub,” Zayn nudges the bottle against Harry’s arm.

Harry starfishes out in bed, wiggling against the sheets, unabashed that zir legs are open, body soft an sweet from their sex, from Zayn domming zir – casual in the intimacy between them. Zayn loves that. Admires that so often, the way that Harry can put zirself out there time and time again and be comfortable in zirself. With this, with them, with zir art, zir sexuality, zir gender.

Zayn kisses zir shoulder as ze drinks, licks a bit at the swirl of pink poking over the curve, smiling at the way it sorta looks like a flamingo.

Zayn’s envious of that, how Harry simply exists and feels things, so completely and constantly.

“You’re so amazing, you’re beautiful, amazing, amazing, amazing,” he murmurs into the soft space of Harry’s neck, when they finally curl together.

Harry floats, still spacey, still safe in Zayn’s arms. Ze mumbles something back, Zayn’s name, like it’s the only word ze remembers.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, “Miss you so much.”

He tightens his grip as they fade into sleep.

Harry leaves in the morning.

Niall’s not there, gone off to a meeting for a club he’s president of – Zayn can never keep track of them all – and it’s a bit somber. Louis hugs too tightly and Zayn watches the way his hands curl around the curve of Harry’s waist, the way Harry tries to bury zirself against Louis. Liam doesn’t bother to tug them apart, just plasters himself to Harry’s back and noses into zir hair until Zayn can barely tell the difference between Liam’s sleep-curls and Harry’s.

When it’s his turn, his hands ache and crackle like they’re decades older than he is. He’s careful with Harry, resists the way his hands want to grab at zir hips, press down into the bruises on zir throat, laid bare to the world.

Harry tries to push closer and he kisses zir gently, says a rough, “You have to get going.”

He skives off going to drop Harry off, ignores the way that Liam makes a quiet sound and Harry’s jaw clenches and then ze flounces away deliberately. Louis is texting Lottie about something and Zayn moves off before he can look up.

The house echoes without them.

Zayn rubs his hand over his face and opens his calendar.

He’s just got to make it through today, and then tomorrow and then whatever other days come his way. He stuffs his phone under the pillow and gets to work answering undergraduate questions about 18th century magical realism.

“It’s important to remain contextually aware, in a deconstruction,” he reminds the class on Tuesday.

A hand raises.

“Yes, Mai?”

She clears her throat a little bit and points her pen down at him vaguely from her 5th row spot. “The projector is set to your desktop. Just so, you’re contextually aware.”

There’s a few muffled twitters of laughter.

Zayn looks down at the laptop background picture of him and Harry curled up in the hammock that Niall quietly and precisely took last summer. He looks up at the picture blown up on the wall to 72 students.

“Thank you, Mai,” he sighs.

Layan’s office is sun warmed by 4 o’clock. Perfect baking temperature for his hours. She looks up from the newest manuscript long enough to throw him a wink.

“Happens to everyone, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles and curls around the corner desk to grade.

At least the monotony of grading is reliable.

He falls deep enough into his readings and gathering sources and looking over research proposals for the department, it’s Thursday before he realizes he hasn’t seen his phone. It’s not that it’s unusual to lose it, it’s just none of the boys have talked about it at home either, casual as anything.

“Have you messaged me recently?” he asks Niall, as they lean against the kitchen counter, eating strawberry yogurt out of the tub.

Niall taps the spoon against the rim and frowns a bit, “No?”

“You message me all the time, Niall.”

“You don’t answer, all the time, Zayn.”

Which, “fair.” But, “I think I’ve lost my phone,” Zayn sighs.

Niall laughs.

“Rude.”

“Zayn,” Niall laughs some more, “If you didn’t lose your phone once a week, think I’d have to call the state patrol and tell them to watch out for flying bucks.”

Zayn takes a ginormous spoonful of yogurt and doesn’t dignify that with a response.

A sound like an explosion rings from the living room and Liam cusses loudly. Louis guffaws and Eleanor laughs like wind chimes over it. Andy says something with Liam’s name in it. Game night is becoming as popular as it is competitive.

“Do you want me to call it?” Niall asks.

“No.”

“No no or no I’m grumpy no?” Niall’s spoon taps Zayn’s index finger.

“No.”

“Alrighty,” Niall drawls and pulls out his phone.

Zayn can just see the flood of notifications lining the top bar of Niall’s phone as Niall dials. Dials from actual memory, not from a contact. He shakes his head. Niall’s a marvel.

They listen quietly for a moment, the ratatat of Call of Duty in the living room mingling with the rhythm of their breathing and the rush of the AC working overtime. You would think October would fucking mean cooler weather, but no, Texas just has to be different.

A tinkle of notes just barely sounds.

“Hmm,” Niall says and wanders out of the kitchen.

Zayn puts the tub on the counter and follows, letting his fingers trail on the picture frames on the wall. It’s strangely nice, to see all of their families mixed up like they are, Harry’s, then Niall’s then Zayn’s then Niall’s then Louis’ then Liam’s then Liam’s again. Some silly order known only as cohabitation.

“Ah,” Niall says, stopping in front of Zayn’s door as his ring tone sounds from inside.

Zayn pulls up beside him.

“Oops?” he offers.

“Whoops.” Niall nods and leans back on the door jam so Zayn can turn the knob and head in. Niall stays back, like always. Zayn roots around aimlessly in the piles of laundry everywhere, glances over the pens on the desk and the candle shavings on the window sill.

“Again?” Zayn asks, and looks back at Niall still leaning outside the door.

Niall’s always like this. Has always refused to go into Zayn’s room

A curl of something hot and greedy burns in his stomach. Zayn feels the urge to push at it, to tug Niall into his space and try and get him to lay down in it _. Look, it’s just me_ , he wants to say. _Why does this bother you_ , he wants to pick at it, needs to feel it under his tongue like a split lip.

But he doesn’t. That’s Niall’s boundary. Harry and Zayn’s room isn’t his and he doesn’t go in.

Zayn swallows the hurt and digs his phone out from under Harry’s pillow the second time Niall calls it in a row.

He presses the home button to see 247 message alerts. There’s so many social media popups he has to scroll to see them all.

Niall laughs at the look on his face.

“This is horrifying,” Zayn mutters.

“Answer your phone,” Niall advises.

Zayn ignores him.

“Niiiiall,” Liam calls from the living room.

“Liiiiam,” Niall calls back and then wanders off.

Zayn decides to swipe away every message that’s from someone who didn’t attend his 8th birthday party.

He makes it about halfway down before he taps individually on skype, because he was actually supposed to get back to Professor Manard about that survey. Pass fail credit for 10 minutes is worth a tap, probably.

Professor Manard hasn’t messaged him, though.

Harry has.

And ze’s left 2 video messages.

“Fuck,” he closes his eyes and knocks his head back against the headboard.

He tries to think back – he hasn’t heard from zir since, “Since flying out.”

Oh hell.

It’s not like he means to do this, it’s just, he’s never been good at the connections that aren’t in his face tangible. It took even Niall a few weeks to understand, it doesn’t matter how compelling a message, a link, a video he sent, if Zayn wasn’t watching his phone immediately when it came in, chances were he’d let it float off.

He slumps into the messy bedsheets and presses play on the video messages.

Harry’s face comes into focus, hair band and sunnies from the day of zir flight and the blurry shapes of airport signs in the background.

“Right,” ze says, “I have arrived. You apparently don’t care, but I’m safe and I have a ride back to the dorm. I also got a message from your mom about dinner plans next month, but you apparently don’t care about that either so. I guess I’ll just let you go back to not caring.”

The message ends on a still of Harry’s jaw clenched tight, zir eyes squinted like ze’s looking to the sun.

Zayn closes his eyes and buries his head under his pillow like that will make the shameful blot of pain in his chest feel any better.

He keeps his head mostly under the pillow as he plays the next message.

It’s an explosion of sound. Some kind of flashing light streaming across the screen and it doesn’t look like anything Zayn knows except for the way that all clubs blend into another and if you’ve seen one sunken sweaty dancefloor you’ve seen most all of them.

Harry blurs into view, curls frizzy and crowding into the screen.

“Zaaaayn,” ze slurs, and Zayn knows then that Harry’s too far gone. There’s that line of confusion in zir voice that always heralds something they’ll both regret.

A thread of panic trails through Zayn. Who is ze with? 

“’m out!” Harry laughs, “Soooo out. Out and about –” the end trails off as the bass rises.

 _Where, Harry_ , Zayn thinks. He doesn’t know when this was though, could have been ages ago. Shit.

“We,” Harry swirls and the video turns into a mush of colors, “are having a fucking great time. Aren’t we?” Harry yells at someone.

Ben comes into view, laughing, Harry wrapped tight around him. “Yeah, Harry we are.”

Zayn’s face twists. Winston.

“Aren’t we!” Harry calls at large and Annie and Cara pop into view, looking just as messy as Harry. Someone’s arm presses a drink into Harry’s barely-lace covered chest and Harry takes the drink without looking, downs it.

“Babe,” Zayn says, quietly.

Ben laughs and moves off and Harry turns and attaches zirself to another dark shape. They turn and Zayn can just make out their voice “Oi! If it isn’t Harry Styles! Bird of the hour!”

Grimshaw. At least Harry isn’t alone then, but. Grimmy looks like he’s so far gone too, swaying under Harry so the phone shows the mess of the club for a second. When it turns back, Harry is downing something blue and in a shot glass.

Grimmy laughs and hands zir another one.

Harry downs that too, line of zir throat wet and highlighted in the neon flash of the club. Zayn swallows hard. Harry’s eyes are unfocused and blown when ze leans back into the camera.

“Look at me,” Harry breathes into the phone, “All ugly, just for you.”

Ze reaches for Grimmy’s shot and downs that too.

The call cuts out.

Zayn stares at the last frame for a second before he fumbles out of the app, pushing the pillow off of his head. He calls Harry with his teeth digging into his lip, fingers twisting the sheets.

The line rings.

And rings and rings and Zayn worries at the sheet stitches.

Finally, it clicks and Zayn starts, “Harry –”

“This is Harry Styles’ fucking great answering service and we are plastered as shiiiiiii –”

“- take mushrooms, Grimmy!” Harry’s voice is so slurred its almost lost, “They are so great. You are so great.”

There’s a loud sound of smacking kissing and cheering and someone laughing hysterically.

“What about the rest of us, are we chopped liver?”

“Nooo, c’mere –”

More sounds of loud, purposeful kissing.

Zayn pulls the phone back and presses to end the call. He watches the picture of Harry blink for a second. The shot of Harry in gauzy white and sparkles, the day of zir gallery showing back in July. Ze’s smiling softly and looking at someone off to the left.

It was taken a few weeks before Harry had gone back to Cali, a few weeks before the morning Harry left when they’d curled up in bed together for hours.

The sun is early.

Zayn is staring at a triangle of sun on Harry’s back and trying to figure out what could make a perfect triangle in their room, without moving. Harry is singing softly, something slow and lovely that makes Zayn close his eyes and lay his head on the curve of Harry’s spine.

“Zayn,” ze giggles, “That tickles.”

Zayn presses a kiss to the dimple just above the line of Harry’s panties.

“What are you singing?” he asks, after a kiss to the other dimple, just for equality sake.

Harry shifts a little and he moves his head back so ze can curl towards him, their legs tangling together easily. Harry brushes their noses together for a second and then closes zir eyes and settles down, smiling softly.

“Sea of love,” ze says, eventually.

Zayn runs a finger along the delicate humming bird with long wings stretched across zir collar, the _we are but stuff that dreams are made on/and our little life is rounded with a sleep_ mixed with oak and carnations on Harry’s lower ribs, the small avocado on zir shoulder like a green freckle.

He leans forward and presses his lips there gently, “Teach me the words?”

And Harry does.

At the end, Harry pulls out zir phone and says, “Wait, let’s, just once for –“

And Zayn sings “Come with me, my love, to the sea,” as Harry sings “Do you remember, when we met, that’s the day.” They sing “I wanna tell you, how much, I love you,” together.

Ze smiles against the skin of Zayn’s wrist and says, “Call me, sometimes, okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn says, and does.

And now –

Zayn doesn’t even know if there’s another copy of it.

He shoves his phone back into the bed and leaves their room. In the backyard, he curls up with _The Waves_ in the hammock. Maybe Tamar and Joy’s maine coon will come outside and purr up on him. 

He gets two chapters in before it bothers him enough he shuts the book and presses his fingers to his eyes.

There’s things, sometimes, as a couple that they can never seem to stop doing, arguments that have the same pattern they’ve run down to dirt time and time again. Little wounds they’ve left on each other Zayn always thinks have healed to scars that they continue to scratch at and bleed open.

Neither of them do well with being forgotten.

So it’s predictable they’d use it on each other for maximum effect.

But this is a new low for both of them. He didn’t check ze was safe and ze fucking did this shit.

“Fuck zir,” he says, out loud.

The trees rustle loudly in response.

He manages to rant his way through two days, keeps himself angry so he won’t be sad. He sends a message to Harry at 2 am, _glad you got back okay_ and thinks about sending a video message that’s just a full five minutes of him shouting wordlessly.

Louis mumbles threats at him, when he crawls into his bed later. Louis’ room is like a safe, over-warm den of garbage. Zayn tucks himself resolutely under Louis’ arm.

“I’m pathetic,” Zayn defends.

“Too right you are,” Louis yawns in his face.

He manages to be angry again in the morning, billowing out of the house before Niall has even finished breakfast. It’s a good thing coffee tastes disgusting, so he can drink it and match.

“Why didn’t you tell me to call Harry back?” He corners Liam in the hallway that afternoon, aware he’s being unfair and not caring enough to stop doing it.

Liam frowns at him, “Call Harry back about what? Ze said you guys were, quote, ‘Just fine.’”

Zayn snaps his wrist like a vehement _see!_

“Oh,” Liam says, quietly after a moment of looking at Zayn’s face. His shoulders curl up. “You didn’t call Harry and check on zir?”

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters and tugs at his hair.

“Jeeze.”

“I know, Liam, okay? I know.”

Liam’s jaw rolls. “Fine.”

He turns around and starts to head down the hallway.

“Wait,” Zayn tugs at his sweater, “I’m sorry, Li. It’s not your fault, you’re right, I’m sorry I’m a shit.”

Liam’s shoulders tense for a moment and then he leans back into Zayn’s touch. “You’re not a shit,” he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re just kinda shitty sometimes.”

Zayn laughs and it feels rough on his throat. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Liam nods. “You always do. But maybe you should ask Harry what ze wants you to try?”

Zayn rubs his knuckles against the line of Liam’s shoulder blade softly. “How’d you get so wise, huh?”

Liam grins and turns a bit so Zayn’s hand trails over his shoulder to his arm. Zayn rubs the soft texture of the chicken wing print between his fingers.

“Got you guys to make all the mistakes, don’t I?”

“Ooooh,” Zayn crows.

Liam laughs the crinkle laugh Zayn likes best. He rubs his thumb against Liam’s bicep and thinks of the shape of it under the cotton, the way it flexes when Liam is working hard or strains when Liam has to keep his hands above his head.

He looks up to see Liam watching him, a little pink around the edges. “I really do have to go, though.”

Zayn shifts his shoulders and lets go, recognizing that the urge to push Liam against the wall, gesture him to curl around Zayn and _stay, stay_ , isn’t helpful. Isn’t even okay, because part of Zayn is still thinking, _just don’t focus on Harry and it’ll be fine, it’ll get better. Just last till ze gets back._

Liam doesn’t deserve that.

Zayn lets him go and goes back to trying to sort through his mess of a life.

Harry sends back a _Thanks._ midday. Zayn looks at it for a moment and then pockets his phone and raises his hand for the question about South Indian authors of the 80s.

Eventually, his mom calls and Zayn ducks into a side building to get away from the sun to answer it.

Doniya is working too many shifts at the hospital just like Auntie does. Zayn disagrees. Zayn really ought to call his dad, _please_. Zayn agrees. Safaa wants a hoverboard. Zayn agrees again.

Trisha smiles a laugh and then asks carefully about Harry.

“We’re fine,” he assures her.

“Mm,” she hums, in that way of mothers everywhere.

“Really, promise.”

“Okay, sunshine,” there’s a rush of water that means she’s doing the dishes, “You be careful okay.”

“I am,” he says, cause he’s an idiot in love with an idiot, not an oblivious placemat. He lives in Texas and he goes to school at a place where acid balloons are yesterday’s news as well as tomorrow’s.

It makes him sick. His mom worrying makes him sick and worn.

“I love you,” she says and everyone around her chimes in with varying discernable loves.

“Love you all too,” He signs off with a smile and wanders around the building to avoid the sun for a bit.

It’s Waggener Hall, he realizes.

Not a bad hall to wander in, really. If you can get past the occasional screaming and the overabundance of trash cans lining the white arch hallways, it’s actually kinda nice. The age of the rooms feels like a worn quilt and the classics library is more than not bad.

Zayn’s been in it enough times to know where the water fountains are, a fair amount of his trips with Niall beside him, scouring for a proper study space.

Early on, when Niall was still small enough that Zayn swore he would turn around one day and find Niall had fallen into a pot hole or sunk underneath his cowboy hat for the last time, this had been his study zone. Zayn wasn’t sure why, he just knew enough not to say anything. Back then, there was still a sharp fear like the smell of new sharpie at the thought of losing Niall, the thought that one of his questions like _Why do you always insist on the same study room when you don’t even really like it?_ or _What did you really think of that Psych of Music class?_ or _I know you said you’re okay, but you’re laughing and it sounds like it hurts – can I help?_ might make Niall drop him off one night and not come back.

“Hey! Malik!”

Zayn blinks himself back to focus on the open door to his side.

“Huh?”

There’s a crowd of people, a cacophony of some club meeting that hasn’t settled into the agenda yet. A lot of neon hair and collars and hand holding. He squints at the board in front of the hall. Someone is writing down _National Coming Out Day – Post Celebration!!!_ in a bubbly script.

Ah. Pride, then.

“Zayn!” the voice calls again.

Zayn turns, trying to place it. It’s like a wall of people.

He latches onto an arm with wristbands waving off to the left. One of them is huge and magenta, with a dolphin on it.

He laughs and eases into the door and along the wall. “Hey, Kay,” he calls.

“Zayyyyn!” Kay says, drawing it out and waving harder.

Zayn steps around a couple talking quietly, pressed together very, very close on a wobbly desk. _Don’t do it_ , he almost says, the fractures aren’t worth it, because your partner will spend the next 12 weeks complaining about their foot and refusing to wear the medical boot and you will spend 12 weeks considering all the ways to get rid of their body without hurting them. Instead, he wriggles around a person doing a mild pelvic thrust and ends up face to face with Kay.

They’ve still got that smooth side buzz going on Zayn’s always admired, but never really had the umph to do. They’re holding hands with two of their partners Zayn recognizes from back when he hung out with the scene more, went through people fast enough to earn a reputation for it. He’s glad to see they’ve stuck together. Kay looks like a mini sun in the middle of an out-of-the-blue musical. Someone’s started on Time Warp.

Kay laughs and lets go of their partners to reach and pull Zayn into a hug. He grins back and hugs them easily.

“How you?” he raises his voice.

“Fucking fab!” they shout back, “How you, moody? Haven’t seen you round much, huh?”

He shrugs, “Moved. Got my TA position. Lost my phone.”

“Lost like 5 phones, more like.”

“Whoops.”

They roll their eyes, good natured and hold out a hand, “Gimme and I’ll give you insta or twitter this time instead of a number, honestly.”

He digs his phone out and unlocks it, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

While they’re typing away, he looks back to see their partners holding hands and leaning into two more people. They’re all wearing the same silver bracelet that Kay once nearly shoved in his face when plastered. “Look,” they’d said, “We got our promise bands. Aren’t we fucking gay.” And then they’d sighed so deep they’d nearly thrown up. It’d left a bit of an impression.

“Did you –“ He starts, then cuts himself off, because they’re friendly but not close enough for those kinda questions anymore.

Kay hands back his phone and raises one well-plucked magenta eyebrow.

“Nevermind, ha.”

“Out with it.”

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing_?”

“Fine,” he laughs, “But you’ll let me know if it’s too personal?

“Duh,” Kay rolls up the bottoms of their sleeves.

“Did you uh – did you open up your relationship? You guys were real adamant about being closed. Gave me a lecture once, if I remember – “

“Oh god,” Kay slaps a palm over their face, “God, I know, I’m sorry.” They reach out to Zayn’s hand, “It’s fair, we were a bunch of asses.”

Zayn takes their hand gently, “And now you’re even more.”

“Ha,” Kay laughs and squeezes at his hand, before glancing back at the foursome in their own bubble, “We kinda slipped into it, you know? Micah and Kori graduated quite a bit back, they go to the mosque over on 51st. Think you know em?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, because they do look really familiar if he puts non-rainbow clothes over them in his head, actually.

“They kinda talked to us about it. Showed us we could be more, could be happy and all together and not have to lecture people about it all, aha. Gave us an actual poly, you know?”

“Oh,” Zayn says, faintly. Then feels silly. Of course it’s possible – he just never really thought of it as like, a thing. A thing that could be as real as standing in front of a room full of people and talking about it nonchalantly.

Kori is like 25 and Micah is older. They have boring desk jobs and like to sit on their patio and drink tea and go to prayers regularly. They have a kid.

They’re in a five-way poly relationship, and it’s normal and happy and talked about.

Zayn flushes. Something in the bottom of his stomach rolls with tension.

One of them – Pooja, Zayn thinks – breaks off to launch at Kay’s back.

“Agh!”

Kay stumbles and Pooja catches them, kissing insistently at their neck.

“Yuuuuck,” Kay laughs.

Pooja grins, teeth flashing white.

Zayn can’t help smiling. They’re sweet. Reminds him a bit of Harry and Niall, floppy and everywhere on each other.

Not that Harry and Niall are together or anything, just - Zayn rubs at his temples. _Stop._

“Zayn, Pooja,” Kay shrugs a shoulder and bounces Pooja, “Xe’s an annoying taco but we love xir.”

Oh.

Pronoun changes. Zayn smiles wider at the both of them and nods at Pooja. He’s got it.

Xe winks back. “It’s new, but it’s feeling good, you know.”

“Hey, nice,” he says, and means it.

“Yup, yup.” Pooja smiles and does a bit of a dance, “just starting feeling lots of feelings that needed some new names,” xe looks down at Kay, “lucky, I knew someone who had a dictionary.”

Zayn’s “How cool,” is drowned out underneath Kay’s “What kind of sappy shit!” and them turning to launch at Pooja to kiss xir.

Zayn laughs and watches as they wrestle on the ground.

They both look happier than he can ever remember them being. Or, not even just happier, settled. Relaxed, like someone has come along and given their soul a massage or something. Painted their colors lighter and looser.

Gender is so cool.

Their partners are watching, Zayn notices, the three of them laughing, with their mouths pressed to one another and their faces bright like looking into the sun.

Love is so cool.

Zayn’s smile twists a bit. He’s jealous.

His breaths come a little hard.

“I uh – “ he says quietly, “I gotta go, Kay.”

“Okie!” Kay calls, from the pile.

Zayn holds his smile until he clears the room, walking faster and faster around congregations of people, explosions of color and pride. Everyone is wrapped around someone and wearing pronoun name tags.

 _Here is me_ , he thinks and his chest sinks with something strange and too much.

He exits and immediately turns for the parking lot, taking one of the side hallways where offices are. His breathing is a little sporadic. His eyes feel prickly.

Leaning back against the wall, he takes a deep breath and holds it. The air still tastes like summer. Someone’s made lasagna and it smells sharp, under the heat. He focuses on it purposefully for a moment, filling his mind, and then lets it all go.

He wants to go home.

He unlocks his phone as he heads out of the building, catching the door someone holds open for him with a quick “Thanks.”

He taps most recent and bites at his lip for a second before swiping.

It rings loudly in his ear. Then pauses, then rings again. He rubs his fingers together too rough, trying not to think of what will happen if ze doesn’t answer. If he has to hear something other than their own voices.

The third time it sounds, there’s finally a tiny click.

Then, silence.

“Harry?” Zayn asks, and unlocks the jeep.

A quiet inhale.

“H,” Zayn says, softer. He climbs into the jeep and turns on the AC before he closes the door. Texas priorities.

“Yeah?” Harry says, eventually.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry breathes quietly.

Zayn waits.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, a quiet strain in zir voice like a tightrope. Ze takes a big breath, “I’m still mad.”

“Okay,” Zayn says. Zayn is a little, too. But it’s getting old, quick. “Can I do anything?”

The AC makes a few stuttering sounds and Zayn lowers it a few dials. The line stays quiet. He rubs at the edge of the frayed seat upholstery, trying to be patient.

“I just want you to think about me,” Harry whispers.

“Oh, H,” Zayn presses the phone closer to his ear, “I think about you so much, babe.”

“Didn’t feel like it.” There’s a suspicious sniff.

Zayn leans his head against the steering wheel.

The sound of a nose blowing and it could be Harry’s allergies again, but Zayn bets not. He swallows hard.

Nothing to make you feel shitty quite like your partner crying because of the both of you. This is why, no matter how bad their arguments get, Zayn can’t stay mad long. He doesn’t do mad at Harry well. Doesn’t want to.

“I miss you so much I hate it,” he says, into the phone.

“Me too,” Harry says, hoarsely.

It doesn’t do much good really, because they also both want Harry to be able to do this, to have gallery shows and to impress and surprise the art elite. They both want Zayn to be able to finish his masters at one of the best lit programs in the country. They still wanna stay in a home filled with Liam and Louis and Niall. And all of these are incongruous, puts them right where they are right now, because they’ve had this argument before.

The line between them stretches long with low grade fuzz. The sun is lowering.

“I gotta go home, but I can call back when I get there?” _Do you want me to call?_ Zayn thinks.

Harry gives a wet laugh, “Still can’t drive while on the phone.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, fights to not smile, relief making his muscles weak, “Well, what else do we have Niall for, huh?” Zayn messes with the rear mirror. Finicky old useless thing, and finishes absently, “Wouldn’t wanna usurp the many talented man.”

“What else, indeed,” Harry says, voice slow and deep.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, not like nothing.

“Uhuh.”

Why are there suddenly 20 people walking behind him, honestly. He grunts, annoyed.

Harry laughs quietly in his ear and his eyes close for a second to focus on it.

“Love you,” he says, eyes still shut.

Harry murmurs nonsense back, “I love you too, Zayn. Don’t drive off the road.”

“That’s you, dear.”

“Bah!” Harry hangs up.

Giggling, he opens his eyes and drives home, only a little more careful than usual. Louis is crowded in the living room with a study group, Eleanor watching like a hawk, literally turning Louis’ head back to the books whenever he looks away. Zayn smiles, surprised, but in a good way. She’s been around more, which might explain why Louis’ textbooks and class notes have been around more.

Zayn leans his head on Liam’s shoulder, as he talks with Harry for their regular yoga date, until Liam kisses his temple and then gently sets him back at the table to go do some poses.

Niall’s there, with a massive bowl of salad and a glaze to his eyes that says he’s a little overwhelmed. Zayn fiddles around on his phone, checking email, half-heartedly reading a few paragraphs of course reading, before he’s bored.

“Whatchu doing?” he asks Niall.

Niall looks up from his phone, a bit of lettuce stuck to his bottom lip. “Uhm,” he swallows, “eating?”

“I mean,” Zayn gestures towards the phone a few inches from Niall’s nose.

“Oh. Asami is having a Halloween party.”

“It’s barely October.”

“It’s almost the second week of October.”

“Pft,” Zayn stretches his arms out across the table carefully, picking at a divot from one of their many knife throwing accidents, “Thought you were going to Laura’s anyway.” He remembers Niall mentioning something about it last movie night.

Niall grins at him, like he’s happy Zayn’s remembered, “Yeah, no reason I can’t do both though. Live a little. Or not, depending on your costume,” he winks.

“Lol,” Zayn says and pinches his side, friendly like.            

He stays and steals some of the salad until Niall delicately places his fork on the back of his hand and stares at him.

“I’ll just go get my gummies, huh.”

“Sounds great,” Niall nods and releases his hand.

Zayn gets them and eats, leaning his chin on top of Niall’s fluffy hair, at the perfect sitting height for stretching his back. It’s nice, ‘cause Niall will pause every few messages he sends to show something to Zayn – an Instagram video full of yapping puppies or a news story about the surface texture of Pluto or whatever.

Zayn rubs his fingers along the top of Niall’s ear lightly and watches the way his whole body shivers.

Niall clears his throat, but he doesn’t say anything, just loads up a story about some pro golfer’s new clothing line.

Zayn does it again, finger following the wobbly inner curve of skin.

“Zayn…” Niall says, quietly.

But he doesn’t say anything else. Zayn rubs his thumb over the incredible softness of his ear lobe, leaves it there for long enough he can actually feel it start to heat up.

“Soft,” he whispers.

Niall’s fingers are shaking on his phone.

“Zayn –“

“Zayn!” Liam calls from the hallway, and then skips into the room.

He jerks back away from Niall, hands clenching.

“Fuck,” he hears Niall breathe.

Zayn’s mouth has gone dry, his chest tight and twisted up overheated like he’s been found out. _Been found out what?_ he wants to shout at himself.

He wonders what Niall would say if he asked, _What is this? What the fuck is happening?_

“Stylesy for you, Zaynie,” Liam says and kisses Zayn’s face, catching the side of his mouth.

“Uh, yeah, thanks babe,” Zayn gathers up a smile for him and Liam crinkles back. He’s sweaty, mohawk all finger messed and tank mildly damp in a way that should be gross.

Liam ducks his head a bit and then leans forward to kiss Zayn more fully.

Sweet, is Liam.

Sweet like he’s never quite used to the idea that he’s here with all of them, that he can kiss Zayn or any of them, that he can crawl in their beds, that he’s built a home in all of their hearts. Liam always seems like he’s waiting for one of the walls to collapse.

Zayn can never let that be.

He kisses back, curls a hand around Liam’s waist and squeezes enough to feel the bit of pudge give. He loves that, smiles into the next kiss as Liam makes a small sound. He loves the shape of Liam, the way he tends to run his tongue along Zayn’s bottom lip like he can’t get enough of the shape.

Zayn kisses him until there’s a tiny voice shouting “Helloooooo! I am still here, you heathens!” from the phone and Zayn breaks away so Liam and him can laugh at Harry’s expense.

Liam’s flushed and bouncy, so Zayn pushes him towards the bathroom, “Go take a shower, minx.”

Liam blinks both eyes in his version of a wink and hands off the phone.

“Hey Haz,” Zayn brings it up to his ear.

“Finally,” Harry launches into a tirade on the dangers of red meat.

“Uhuh,” Zayn says and starts to head down to their room.

“- like I said to Niall the other day, I’m right, by the way, if he told you differently he was wrong –“

_Niall._

Zayn looks back to Niall. He’s curled intensely around his phone, slumped down and leaned over enough, the bowl looks like it could swallow him. Redness has crept into his face and down the bit of his chest revealed to the room by one of Liam’s tanks.

For a moment, Zayn watches him, pecking away at the screen. The line of his shoulders looks tight.

Taking a deep breath, he turns away to talk to Harry.

He doesn’t mention the thing with Niall, when they’re talking, doesn’t even know if it’s something he should mention.

“Don’t even know what the fuck it _is_ ,” Zayn reminds himself as he lays in bed that night, 2 hours on the phone with Harry and a new negotiation about not getting off while Harry’s not there that he’s not overly thrilled about, but is hoping will be worth it later.

Harry sounds good, is all that matters. And ze saved a copy of the song.

They hurt each other, but not beyond repair, never that.

Curling around Harry’s favorite stuffed bear, he inhales deep and dreams of foggy nothing.

He passes the next few days in a lightly overworked haze, with exam session almost upon them. The weekend crawls up on them, with Niall shouting a “Happy Friday gents!” over cereal and pastries.

“Ugh,” Zayn says.

Louis groans from his place resting on Niall’s shoulder. “Shut up, love.”

“Morning,” Liam says, sounding pained.

They all glance at him. He’s a grumpy gus, but not usually so much so, this early. Liam usually reaches peak grumpiness about 2 PM. Zayn knows, because it’s usually when Liam crawls huffily into a nap with him or Louis.

“Y’alright?” Niall asks, tearing into a chocolate croissant.

“No.”

Zayn reaches over a hand clumsily to rub at Liam’s back. “Sup?”

“I think I have Charlie horses in four places. One of them my ass.”

Louis bursts into laughter.

“Oh no,” Niall says, trying to keep a straight face.

Zayn laughs, but he also presses his hand firmer against Liam’s back.

Liam groans and arches up against his hand. One of his muscles gives a weird spasm against Zayn’s hand and he has to resist shuddering in disgust.

“Jeeze.”

Liam’s head is hanging a bit.

Almost inhaling the rest of his croissant, Niall looks at Liam closely. “You want me to –“

“Please,” Liam moans, pathetically.

“Ha, okay okay, Leem.” Niall gently moves Louis off, with a kiss to his temple and goes to set his plate in the sink. “Living room.”

Zayn rubs one more circle to Liam’s back and helps him push to his feet.

Niall takes Liam’s hand and pulls him gently into the living room and Zayn edges over just enough to watch.

They’re unbearably soft together. Niall always exceptionally considerate of Liam like this, aware of what it’s like to have an injury and to be scared of what it means, to need someone to put their hands on your hurt and be careful with it.

Besides that, Niall is good with the specifics of it. He knows to put Liam level on the exercise mat and mildly pillow his head. He knows which prescription lotion to grab from the communal medicine cabinet. Most of all, he knows how to listen to Liam’s responses, even when he’s silent.

Niall whispers reassurances to the back of Liam’s neck, smooths his large palms down Liam’s trapezoids with familiar ease. His thumbs dig in firmly and Liam makes a soft sound and turns liquidy.

Reasonable.

Zayn’s a mushy cloud just watching it.

“I need a nap,” Zayn says.

“It’s 9 AM,” Louis says, dry.

“Yep.”

The sound of Louis laughing around cereal follows him down the hall.

He really does need a nap though. Grading papers until 3 sounded like something out of teacher’s self-pity tirades before he actually became a TA. Drifting easily, he sinks back into the foggy dreams.

The world is brighter when he wakes.

The clock on the bedside blinks a happy 12:34 and he sighs into the smell of Harry’s pillow. He really ought to wash it, but it’s his bed and no one is in it, so what they don’t know won’t get Zayn made fun of.

When he toddles out of the room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Liam is in the kitchen, making lunch. He’s wearing sweatpants and one of Niall’s shirt-dresses. It’s the soft grey galaxy one that they all appreciate for the way Niall goes lovely in it, small and bold like a July sparkler.

“Nice,” Zayn croaks. For the view and also for the soft ease of Liam’s muscles.

Liam sways his hips a bit without turning around. “Love Nialler.”

Pressing his cheek against the door jamb for a second, Zayn smiles softly. “Same.”

Liam putters about with the salt for a bit and Zayn listens to _The_ _Pinkprint_ echo from Liam’s phone. The sun through the windows is catching on Niall’s succulents and Harry and Louis’ lima beans. Only at their house, would 20-something year olds in college keep prized plants from preschoolers on their window sills. Not that Zayn has any room to say anything. But his are at least on the back porch, where he can coo and be emotional in private.

Zayn checks the white board on the pantry door, but no one’s written anything except “DO NOT DRINK MILK IN FRIDGE !!!!!!”

Hm. Usually Louis and Niall manage to swing around for lunch on Fridays.

“Where’s Thing 1 and Thing 3?”

Liam laughs. “You know, it’s silly that we have actual numbers, right?”

“I know,” Zayn grins and hip checks him as he passes to flop in the far seat. Not technically his, but it has his lack of butt shape imprinted on it, so.

Liam shakes his head a bit, “They’re off at ACL.”

Zayn blinks.

“ACL?”

“Yeah, the massive music fest that fucks up our ability to attend anything or drive anywhere for 6 plus days in October every year? Zilker? Beer and a lot of weed? Terrible fake gold tattoos.”

“No, I know, fuck, Li,” Zayn rolls his eyes and promises to pinch Liam good later for laughing. “Didn’t realize it was this weekend, I guess.”

“You’ve had a lot going on,” Liam says, not unkindly.

“Yeah, guess so.”

It’s not a big deal or anything. Zayn twirls his phone, and hits the home button, but he doesn’t have any notifications.

He doesn’t wanna go really. It just might have been nice to be asked, or to realize that there was anything even worth being asked to. Course maybe, there’s more than one reason they didn’t clue in anyone else.

They’re always coupley, even when they’re not doing anything. It fills the air around them. They wear their togetherness as a favorite necklace, bright and attention grabbing around their necks.

Zayn can’t even say he’s ever been surprised by it.

Louis and Niall have always somehow just clicked. They like things in the ways that are just different enough not to be abrasive and just similar enough to be made into inside jokes; is probably the trick. Everyone probably has a story about running into them having a late night, has a story of them coming at something from a different angle, sweet even when prickly.

Zayn remembers early when they first moved in together, back when Louis was sometimes still figuring out all of their edges, testing the shape of all of them, one night when him and Louis had been playing sets before bed and got carried away.

Louis presses his prized limited edition of _A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out_ into the tried and true stereo in the corner.

It’s 3:20 AM.

“Juuuust until Camisado,” Louis slurs, to the look on Zayn’s face.

Right. The day Louis isn’t punk and emo down at heart is the day Zayn doesn’t have to pause the t.v. when Mufasa dies.

Zayn shrugs, though.

It won’t matter. They won’t even get to _Nails for Breakfast_ before Niall can’t stand it anymore.

He takes a moment to swig half his drink in remembrance of the day he didn’t know the tracklisting for a _Panic At the Disco!_ album.

Sure enough, right around the time Louis looks ready to hop on the coffee table and start pulling things off, Niall storms into the room.

“Y’all are the rudest fucking shits on the fucking planet,” He says, marching around Louis without even high fiving him for his dougie. “I have three tests tomorrow. Not one, not two, but three.” He jabs at the button of the stereo. _London Beckoned_ screeches off.

Louis rolls his eyes at Zayn. Zayn shakes his head and slumps back into the couch for the show.  Louis gives him a confused eyebrow and turns back to whine at Niall, “Sunshine, c’mo –“

Niall presses his hand to Louis’ chest and pushes, standing stock still. Zayn bites his lip so he doesn’t giggle.

“Louis,” Niall says, saccharine, “If I don’t get enough sleep to make it through 8 hours of multiple choice tomorrow, I will start collecting heads to present to my profs as excuse trophies. Now, shut the fuck up or go somewhere else.”

Louis gapes, “The fu –“

Niall covers Louis’ mouth and then kisses the back of his own hand. “Another noise and you will never have another Niall Breakfast Special.”

He drops his hand and Louis stays still like he’s been pinned to the floor.

Niall turns and pulls out the entire disc changer. He kisses the side of Louis’ blinking face and drops a kiss to the top of Zayn’s head, as he passes back out of the room.

“I love you both. Be fucking quiet,” Niall says, bland. His door shuts a few seconds later with a sharp click.

Zayn takes another swig of his drink, waits for it. Louis is still staring at the space in front of the stereo. The muscles in his neck look like they’re tensing up for one almighty release. Zayn almost opens his mouth to warn him not to – second time isn’t nearly as fun, when Louis spins around towards him, eyes bright, his muscles vibrating.

“Wow,” He crows, looking plastered and giddy and gorgeously turned on.

And there it is.

“Same,” Zayn says, wistful.

“Does he always –“

“Naw, only on like, big days. But it’s always –“ Zayn waves his hand a bit.

“Fucking hot,” Louis licks his lips, bouncing in place.

Zayn’s stomach sways, he runs his thumb over his chin. “Yeah.”

Louis eyes Zayn’s pants. Zayn smirks into his glass.

“Does he know?” Louis asks.

“Yeah. Pretty self-aware, our Niall is.”

“He okay if we –“ Louis tenses, gesturing a jerk between the two of them.

Zayn smiles, rueful. “Yeah he is, but I can’t. Promised Haz I’d wait out a few days till ze’s back. Can do you though, if you want, bro.”

“Hmm,” Louis taps a foot. “No, better not risk it. You’re a love though, thank you.” He comes over to bite down on Zayn’s neck just the way they both like.

Zayn groans, fists Louis’ shirt. “You’re awful.”

“I’m brilliant,” Louis corrects, his lips brushing against Zayn’s skin, sending tingles everywhere.

Zayn allows himself just one kiss sucked into the delt of Louis’ neck. The best spot, for how Louis goes all liquid and easy and intense in his arms. The best spot, for how Louis has said that it’s one of the places he’s okay with being touched, no matter the mood.

Zayn likes knowing the reliable spots on all of them.

“Thank you,” Louis says, into his ear, as he pulls back. He cranes his neck to look down at the blossoming hickie for a second and then flicks Zayn’s nipple as he gets up.

“Bastard.”

Louis laughs at him softly and heads down the hall, walking a little strange.

Zayn tilts his head back against the couch and waits, listening hard.

There’s a click and a lull. Then –

“Whu – the fuck, Lou!”

“Shut up, Liam. Be silent. We can’t wake up Niall or he’ll kill me and I’ll have to kill you,” Louis hisses. There’s a slight smacking sound. “Now get your cock out.”

There’s a strangled sound that dies off.

“- Fucking door,” someone shout-whispers. Zayn’s betting Liam.

The door clicks shut and there’s a mild thud.

Zayn shakes his head against the couch.

So yeah, music festivals do seem like a LouisAndNiall thing, no matter that they’re sometimes at opposite ends of the music spectrum. They always work stuff out.

Zayn says as much.

Liam shrugs his shoulders, “Agree. But, if you wanted to you know, try...”

“No,” Zayn says, drawing a small mindless pattern on the wood of the table, “Not really my place.”

Liam hums and fusses with seasoning for the eggs.

“Besides,” Zayn continues, “I’m not sure I could take 30 hours of Louis dragging both of us over hot coals for front row pop punk garbage.”

“Niall is his true love,” Liam nods, like he’s glad he wasn’t involved in any form.

Zayn laughs. Leaning his head into his palm, he makes himself relax into the soft kitsch of the room.  
“Tell me about your upcoming meet,” he says.

Liam straightens up and turns around to grin full bodied at him. “Well –“

Zayn listens closely to words he doesn’t really understand. If egg goes flying across the kitchen, then that’s not really his fault, is it. Besides, ceilings clean. Liam bounces.

Zayn has a tutor session with one of his undergrads at 4 and it takes predictably forever to explain basic research methods.

 _You would think_ , he complains to Shahid, who’s just gotten back stateside from some filming in London, _this would b basic material_

 _Someone didn’t know what stage directions were last week_ , he sends back.

Sometimes, Zayn despairs.

When he gets home, and his goodwill for the human race has been almost completely eradicated by the state of Austin drivers’ _everything_ , Louis and Niall are already back.

Harry Potter is playing from the living room and Zayn peeks in to see Liam and Niall are curled up on the couch. Niall looks rosy and a little damp and Liam is whispering against his hair, his arms curled easily around him. Head swaying a bit, Niall whispers something back and Liam’s hand smoothes along Niall’s side.

Zayn watches for a moment, feeling strange and distant.

He cuddles with Liam a lot and with Niall too, but he doesn’t know that it’s like this. Does Liam curl that intensely into him? Does Niall look that at ease with him? Does Zayn have a sharp intimacy with either of them, which sings ‘ _we_ ’ like Liam and Niall have together?

Has Zayn missed something?

There’s a loud spell on the t.v. and Niall looks up to see Zayn hovering in the doorway.

“Zayno!”

Zayn gives him a half smile, “Hey Niall. Liam.”

Liam smiles up at him, totally relaxed.

Zayn plops onto the couch for movie night and tries to order himself to be as relaxed.

Niall lists into his side a bit, “We got backstage today,” he crows, softly.

“Oh my gosh,” Liam says pulling back a bit to look down at Niall, “Really?”

“Yeah, we – “

“Neil,” Louis leans over top the couch, “Are you giving away our secrets again, huh!” He bites at the top of Niall’s head.

“Haha, Lou,” Niall shoves halfheartedly back at Louis’s face and then steals some of the popcorn.

“Aha! Attack!” Louis tickles at Niall’s sides and Liam laughs as Niall gasps.

Zayn fidgets with the stitching on the couch. He knows that’s one more story that won’t have any of the rest of them in it. Zayn doesn’t have a lot of those with Niall anymore, he realizes.

He eats the popcorn quietly, hand squeezing his own leg a little too hard to keep from reaching out for Niall.

 _When did you get so far away_ , he thinks.

Onscreen, Harry chokes out, “I just feel so _angry_ , all the time, and what if after everything I've been through, something's gone wrong inside me –“ and Zayn leans his head against Liam’s arm and tries to breathe evenly.

He lays in the dark that night, and tries not to imagine the shadowed spaces of the room as miles between him and the rest of them. The bed feels too big.

“Sunday,” Zayn reminds himself. Sunday, Sunday, and Harry will be back and Zayn can hug zir and say home and mean it.

Louis and Niall are gone again early the next day and Zayn sends a _??_ to Niall before he can think better of it.

 _Tacossss_ Niall sends back, then a few hours later, as Zayn is grumpily working his way through yet more essays, he sends a video of Louis with his eyes closed. His smile soft and deadly, singing loudly along, “You sprinkle stardust across my pillowcase, it’s like a moonbeam brushed across my face.” His voice is high and sweet, curling around the vowels like a parenthesis. Niall turns the camera to catch his own sun bolded happiness at the end of it, smile as wide as the sky, “Nights are good, and that’s the way it should beee,” trailing off into a laugh. _Echosmith !!!!!_

Zayn leans his head against the phone and breathes deep.

Louis and Niall could make the sun look dim.

He sends the video to Harry, knows Niall wouldn’t mind. Unable to think of a caption he just puts, _look._

300 words later, Harry texts back _I love them._

 _yeah,_ Zayn sends back. Harry will know.

Sunday blooms a little cooler than the past few weeks, clouds actually threatening on the horizon. A very tan Louis and a very toasty Niall are giggly at breakfast. Zayn guesses a little preemptively high, too.

He laughs softly and trails his hand along their joined ones as he heads out for grocery shopping.

“Have a good one, babes.”

“Deffo. Check my insta for lotsa updates, kay,” Niall sings at him.

Louis raises their arms and whoops.

Zayn leaves, smiling.

Family dinner tonight.

It feels like years since Harry has been home, too much drama layered on top of too much work and this is what traditions are for. Finding your place back when you’ve been spun around enough to lose the road markers.

 _I WANT MORE RICE KRIPSIES MORE MOREE_ , someone has written on the shopping list.

Zayn shakes his head and adds a few boxes to the cart.

Niall’s stuff is all done in neat lines, his writing curly and done by store order.

 _green beeeeans pls_ is at the bottom and Zayn adds fried onions automatically. If they’re going to have casserole, then Zayn’s going to make sure it’s as unhealthy as possible.

Plus it makes it easier to have to put organic power bars in the cart too.

He doesn’t go with Liam to pick up Harry, but it’s because he’s on a call to Waliyha and she’s crying about someone in her class calling her ugly and he’s leaning against the bathroom sink feeling like he could break through 12 walls to get to her and promise her that she’s so lovely and so strong and he misses her so much.

 _soz h :(_ he sends

 _hey, it’s okay, you told me. Hope she is okay x_ Harry sends back, just before ze boards.

By the time he gets off the phone, it’s 6. He wanders out to find Freckles, the neighborhood tabby, to sneak treats to and try and calm down. He’s in luck and finds her with a tom. They’re both fat and friendly and he feels a bit more like a human being after.

“Baby!” Harry slams open the door around 8.

Zayn drops the xbox controller and very, very calmly walks towards the doorway.

He and Harry collide hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs. Harry’s arms octopus around him, and then zir legs. His shirt pulls down enough to be a sharp line against his windpipe, but he just gripes Harry’s belt loop harder, balancing zir with one hand pressed hard to zir lower back.

It’s all a bit dramatic, but Zayn doesn’t give a shit.

“Love you, love you,” he repeats into Harry’s hair.

“So much, so much,” Harry presses back into his shoulder.

Zayn hears Liam laughing gently as he locks the door and leaves them in the hallway.

They don’t have sex, but Zayn stays in the bathroom while Harry showers and he traces over the lines of Harry’s tattoos, the curves of zir tummy and thighs. Harry keeps smiling into the water, sighing loud enough to echo. Occasionally ze flicks water at Zayn sitting on the toilet lid, one leg drawn up. Zayn allows it, because he knows and he’s feeling the same.

It’s not just the feeling of Harry orgasming that he misses, the joy of being responsible for that. He misses their intimacies. He misses the comfort that comes with years and trials and slipping on your ass in the bathtub and calling for someone and having them not make fun of it and just time and the way that’s worn their edges easy with each other.

He never thought that someone would feel comfortable with him watching as they shower. He never thought he’d feel comfortable with watching.

They come out to the kitchen holding hands and take turns kissing the side of Liam’s neck as he starts on baking the chicken.

“Hi you two,” Liam squeaks.

He’s breathing loud and pink cheeked by the time Louis and Niall straggle in, smelling like sweat and outdoors.

They do their own turn in the shower, separately, because Zayn knows Louis gets uncomfortable with anyone showering with him. While he waits for Louis to get done, Niall sits on the counter and regales them.

“Twenty-One Pilots were so good, great projection. I’m gonna grow up and marry Lion Babe. Walk the Moon _loves_ me. Chance the Rapper had the whole park in sync. We had a lot of pineapple cider.”

“Pineapple?” Harry cuts in.

Niall rolls his eyes. “We can try some.”

“Yay,” Harry smiles smugly against Liam’s neck.

Louis clears out of the bathroom with a wave of boiling air and a t-shirt thrown at Harry’s head. “We got you this, say you love us.”

It’s Harry’s Nate Ruess shirt, signed with love.

Ze tears up and launches at Louis, taking Zayn’s arm with zir.

They all narrowly avoid upending the pot of boiling rice.

“Fuck,” Zayn takes back his hand to sit at the table, partly to encourage them to eat as soon as possible before they spill it all and partly to be able to claim the chicken first.

They set the table well enough that Niall comes back and grins at them all, cooing.

“Awww, gosh. Well ain’t this just a pretty picture.”

“I am withering away of starvation,” Zayn tells him, though he does take a minute to follow the line of a bead of water as it slips down Niall’s neck.

Niall laughs and sits down.

Finally, they eat.

He doesn’t bother to keep track, but at some point in the meal, he kisses all of their cheeks, holds everyone’s hand or boops their nose or noses into their shoulders. They don’t quite play musical chairs, but there is music playing somewhere and they are playing with each other’s hands and in each other’s spaces.

“Love you!” someone says, in the middle of dessert.

“Love you,” they all chorus and Zayn feels full to bursting.

Eventually, Niall hisses when Harry presses one too many kisses to his redred shoulders. Pulling back with a frown, Harry walks out of the room. Ze comes back five minutes later with an actual cut up aloe plant.

They all stare at zir for a moment.

“Harry,” Niall warns.

“Niall.”

“Absolutely, beyond a doubt, no.”

Harry looks offended.

Zayn stifles his laughter with okra.

Later, when all of them are curled up on the couch and half off of it, Louis and Harry whisper for a bit and then both reach for Niall. He stares at them for a moment, biting at his lip and then hits his head against the couch, but he lets them gently tug off his shirt and slot him in between their legs. Harry pulls out a Mason jar filled with green goop and Niall wrinkles his nose, but he lets them rub it across his shoulders carefully.

Zayn watches the production, smiling.

Harry saves his nose for last, and rubs the aloe on with one finger, gently down the bridge.

Niall smiles small at zir.

Harry frowns back seriously and presses down on the squishy end of Niall’s nose until he giggles a bit.

“Stop Haz,” he laughs quietly, wrapping fingers around zir wrist.

Harry lets him pull zir wrist away and then leans down to press a kiss to Niall’s thumb.

Niall’s breath catches and Zayn’s echoes it. Harry smiles softly up between both of them.

Jeeze.

He jerks his eyes away only to find Louis looking at him, a frown twisting his forehead. He’s gone tense around Niall.

“What are we watching, Liam?” Zayn asks, too loudly.

He stays watching the t.v. the rest of the night, even when they switch to boring reruns of _House_. Everyone is sleepy and slipping together and into the couch cushions. Zayn watches Louis from the corner of his eyes, the careful way he keeps Liam between him and the rest of them.

 _There’s nothing wrong, Louis,_ he tries to will at him. _There’s nothing at all. There’s nothing._

Everyone heads off to bed at around 2 AM, Niall looking faintly green under the application of 2 more layers of aloe and Zayn feeling a little green watching Louis narrow his eyes in between him and Harry and back to Zayn himself.

Everyone’s door closes and Zayn orders himself to breathe, to calm down. He needs to stop imagining things where there aren’t.

Harry kisses down Zayn’s spine as they get ready for bed and Zayn lets himself relax into zir.

He and Harry have quiet sex, mindful that no one is asleep yet and that they don’t really want anything more than a stress release and the rush of good orgasm endorphins. Zayn appreciates that he has a partner that understands that.

After, Harry is smug and slippery and Zayn laughs into his pillow a bit, falling asleep.

The next day is taxing, a rush as Zayn bounces back and forth between projects and getting secondary advisor approval for his own project and trying to help someone understand the nature of antithesis doesn’t just mean being dramatic about two different things, celebrates Muharram quietly, with the rest of the staff, calls his family and _misses_.

Zayn gets in late.

Sighing as he waits for the garage door to lower, he plays with the edges of his keys. Finally, the clanging rhythm stops and Zayn pushes open the laundry room door – only to come face to face with Niall sitting on the washer. The dryer is going full pell next to him.

“Hello?” he asks, laughing.

“Heya,” Niall doesn’t look up from his laptop.

“What’s up?”

Niall shrugs, “Just doing some whites.”

“Mm,” Zayn closes the door and goes over to cuddle against Niall’s warmth shamelessly. Niall drops his arm down to give him room. He’s got an excel spreadsheet for something up. “Where are flopsy, mopsy and cottontail?”

Niall laughs and tilts his head towards the door to the kitchen. “In the living room, having a romp.”

Ah.

Meaning Louis and Harry are double teaming Liam. Harry’s asked him about it before, in that subtle difference of _“I don’t want to have sex with Louis, but I want to have sex with Liam and Louis can be there”_ and he’s agreed, laughing.

Course, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know how or when Harry talked with Liam or Louis about it. They didn’t talk about it with _him_. Not that they have to but -

Zayn rolls his eyes, partly at them, partly at himself, says, “Also just doing some whites, then.”

Niall grins against his temple, teeth feeling a bit strange.

It’s weird, but sometimes he still expects to see a line of metal across Niall’s teeth. He’d only known Niall with them for a bit, just a few months, but it feels like that Niall lays pressed like a peony in between the pages of Zayn’s journals. Soft and lasting and _tinted_ with nostalgia.

It’s funny to look up and see people have changed and then to step back and see that you’ve already accepted that change, without even realizing.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks.

“Hmm,” Niall makes a popping noise, “Me ‘n Lou voted for pizza. H voted for chicken masala.”

“So chicken masala, then?”

“If ze doesn’t fuck up the recipe, yeah.” Zayn rolls his eyes up to see Niall rolling his.

“Can’t be that hard, can it?” Zayn asks quietly.

“Not really,” Niall says, quieting too, “Pretty easy, actually.”

He inhales carefully, watching the way Niall traces the shape of Zayn’s face with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, too low.

“Yeah,” Niall whispers and jerks his eyes away and back down to the laptop screen. He starts typing but it’s disjointed and Zayn can just see the jerky way that his fingers are trembling.

He walks in the house, feeling a bit shaky himself, one hand pressed at his head like that will make things magically be clear and focused.

He passes by the living room with a glance, just to see the way the three of them move together, sound together, overlapping and pressed closer than an intimate acoustic.

It’s like moving art.

Extremely, unbearably erotic moving art. Zayn’s whole body feels hot looking at them.

For a second, Zayn thinks of going in.

He knows how Louis would glance at him with a grin, raise an eyebrow with a challenge, how Liam and Harry would be burning and cajoling. But, he also knows that Niall would come in and know. And it’s all fine and dandy to be on your own with your orientation, but when it’s you and your orientation as the odd one out, it gets a bit stale.

Zayn tries to be mindful of that. Niall is Niall and he isn’t less and he would never say anything about feeling excluded.

No, Zayn thinks as he heads to take a cool shower, Niall would just hide out in the laundry room instead.

He tries to be soft with him at dinner. Winks and sings, “It’s not delivery, it’s masala,” at him.

The rest of them are sticky and sweaty. In Liam and Harry’s case, sweet and like well chewed taffy at the ends. In Louis’s case, sour and ramped up like someone’s still biting at the taffy of him.

He barks at Niall in the middle of dinner and Niall stutters over talking about his advanced econ class.

“Lay off, Lou,” Zayn says and steals his roll.

There’s something in the air between Louis and Niall that Zayn isn’t sure of, makes him frown over his toothbrush, getting ready for bed.

“Hey,” Harry leans into the door jam, “”Whatchu doing, string bean, c’mon.”

He looks back at Harry and laughs at the sloppy braid in zir hair, looking like ze gave up halfway through. The oversized t-shirt is one of Taylor’s from their date last summer to South Padre island.

Zayn kisses Harry’s cheek and follows zir to bed, happy to have zir home.

He dreams of giant noodles line dancing.

The blaring of the phone pulls him out of sleep, one ringing tendril at a time. He squints at it in his hand; _3:29 AM, Louis_ and flops it onto the side of his face so he can stay laying down.

“Is Niall okay?” Zayn says into it, drowsy and mushed.

“What? Why would that be your first question. What.”

Zayn shrugs into his pillow. “Everyone always calls Niall.”

There’s silence on the other end for a second, interspersed with snatches of muted conversations from wherever Louis’ out, on a school night, getting plastered. Zayn lets it sit for a moment before he says, quietly, “He’s an incredible guy, Lou.”

“I know that,” Louis snaps, then repeats it near silently, like a longing echo, “I know that.”

Zayn waits. Harry’s hair is curled over the edge of Zayn’s pillow, an array of curls highlighted by a slant of pale light from the window. He brushes a finger along the line of one. It’s soft and familiar like home.

Louis clears his throat a bit, more respectful than usual by half.

“Sup?” Zayn says, shaking himself a bit to not drift off.

“The bar’s closing.”

“Uhuh?”

“Paul won’t give me my keys.”

“Aha.”

“Shut up. I didn’t do anything.”

Zayn ignores that bit, because he knows Louis can’t help it. Just the same as he knows that Louis can’t say he needs a ride home, because that would be admitting something, that would be a call for help and that’s not what this is. Not as long as Lou can claim elsewise.

“Need a partner against the night?” Zayn asks, instead, hearing his voice still mushy with sleep.

There’s a soft sound and then Louis’ voice, closer and softer than before, “Yeah, partner.”

“Okie doke,” Zayn says as he starts climbing out of bed.

He goes carefully, avoiding Harry’s limbs and Harry’s general sleepy mess. By the time he’s extracted himself to the pile of clothes in the corner, the phone is blinking with a call ended notice. He shrugs on a t-shirt and jeans and grabs his keys with minimal clinking. A success, overall. Not even a hint of noise from Niall’s room, which is closest.

He stares at the door for a second, though. It is weird that Louis didn’t call him.

The jeep judders underneath his touch, jolted awake at an unusual hour and by Zayn’s sleep heavy hands.

Halsey is still on in the player, low, singing brokenly of dripping like a saturated sunrise, spilling like an overflowing sink, blue blue, blueblue.

He turns the CD louder, grins into his shoulder thinking of him and Louis and Liam going to Target on the release date. Louis still a little unsure with all of them, but determined to be front and center. He’d knocked over an entire display of John Wayne movies like someone was daring him. Liam looked shocked and then delighted, laughter bursting into soft crinkles from his eyes and mouth. And Zayn had decided anyone who announced themselves like they were descending a staircase in a grungy bar, anyone who could make Niall sigh so lightly and make Liam laugh so hard, was just fine in his books.

He’s humming when he gets to Paul’s, driving mostly on reflex.

Paul opens the door as he’s reaching for it, one hand on Louis’ shoulder.

“This yours?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yessir,” Zayn says, coughing to cover his laugh. Louis keeps trying to pull away from Paul’s hand, without acting like he’s pulling away. Zayn knows it’s not Louis being demi that makes him try to squirm away. It’s the whole concerned parent aura Paul’s wearing right now.

“Good,” Paul says and lets go of Louis.

Zayn receives the package, laughing in his head a bit at the thought.

“Night,” Paul says, pointedly, and shuts the door.

“We can come back tomorrow for your keys, yeah?” Zayn says, not bothering with the fact that it’ll probably be Louis and Niall who come back, or just Niall. Paul’s is even more in love with Niall than the regular human population.

Louis doesn’t say anything, but he stops at the corner, looking towards the river, “Can we, walk?”

Zayn shrugs. It might help sober Louis up before they go home, help him avoid the slow descent into This Is Too Drunk, lying in bed. “Sure.”

They walk south, picking their way quietly along the construction and the bright splotches on the roadways. Zayn kinda likes it, the strange, almost eerie quiet of a city sleeping. Feels like empty concrete echoes louder than it should. Eventually, Louis cuts them across Cesar Chavez without looking for cars. Zayn laughs a bit and follows.

They’re at the river now. South Congress, Zayn thinks, but he doesn’t know if the bridge itself has a name.

“Does this bridge have a name?” Zayn asks quietly, to the back of Louis’ shoulders.

“Dunno,” he says, stepping up to the ledge.

Niall would know the name of the bridge, if it even has one.

Zayn follows Louis up on the ledge, watches as Louis balances on the rung and then sees the thought form in his head about them climbing over, possible in the 4AM sweet spot.

“We’re gonna die,” Zayn says, pretty unbothered.

“Possibly,” Louis says, equally as dry. But he sets back down and hooks his feet under the railing, instead, worn supras squished by the space.

“Don’t know that this is really a bridge made for 4AM philosophical adventures,” Zayn tells Louis, even as he’s hoisting himself up onto the railing, too.

Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment. Blue lights have saturated the side of his face, darkened the curl of his ears, brightened the slope of his cheek. His face is made of contrasts. It makes him look impossible. Like some pop art creation, willed onto a questionable probably-South-Congress bridge late at night, meant just to make questions curl on Zayn’s tongue, slip down and slide off somewhere into the blue abyss beneath them.

“Naw, probably is,” Louis says, finally, soft like cornflower blue.

Zayn rubs his thumb along the peeling paint of the railing. He closes his eyes against a passing car’s headlights. “Whyssat?” Zayn murmurs, without opening his eyes.

There’s spots in his vision, but it’s like an overlay – the blue film of Louis still rolling strong before him. He wonders if it’s possible to know someone well enough to find the shape of them in the dark and then again in the light. In the spaces between sheets and in the night-random moments that overwhelm and daze. He thinks maybe so.

“This is where we came, one of the places we came, That Night.”

That Night.

The Night Louis and Niall became LouisandNiall. The Night something slotted into place in all of their lives. Zayn has always heard it capitalized, just now he ignores the layered flutter in his stomach it brings.

The film in front of his eyes skips, a slow burn of Niall curling into the corners.

“Yeah?” Zayn says, finally.

“Yeah.”

Zayn opens his eyes slowly, the lights shifting around him like waves, different densities jostling for space in the air around them. The road is sharp and murky. “And?”

Louis wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t want it picked at.

There’s a murmur just before a weight presses into his side, the softness of Louis’ t-shirt folding up against Zayn’s arm. Zayn twines his finger around a bit of the hem, easy as unlocking his front door.

“He told me about you guys.”

Zayn jerks his eyes up to Louis’, finds Louis’ closed. The skin is bunched, like Louis is clenching them. A small tremor works its way down Louis’ throat.

“Yeah?” Zayn nudges gently. He tucks his finger under Louis’ hem, feels the heat of Louis’ skin like he’s actually touching him.

Louis’ jaw clenches and something echoes it in Zayn’s stomach, just before Louis opens his eyes and glares at a streetlight. “Did I take something from you?”

“What?”

Louis kicks a something – a pebble, viciously and the crack of it is too loud in the dark. The movement tugs Zayn’s finger out of his shirt and Zayn’s hand falls free. He twists his fingers together. It feels too cold, now. The precise weight of the bridge upset by Louis’ energy.

“Did I?” Louis asks again, accusative, harsh like they’re in the middle of an argument.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, Louis,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “Are you that drun –“

“Niall,” Louis spits out.

“No, I’m _Zayn_.”

“No –”

“No what?”

Louis lets out a sound like a mutated scream and turns to face Zayn, just slightly too close in a way that raises warnings along the back of Zayn’s neck like a series of tremors before an earthquake.

“Did I take something from you and Niall?”

Zayn stares at Louis, “What? What the fuck are you –”

“From you and Niall,” Louis shouts, “What were you?”

“I don’t know what yo –”

Louis steps closer, coiled and smoothed lines, something boiling under the surface, his eyes gone cold, like the rattlesnakes Niall always tells horror stories about. “What were you and Niall going to be,” Louis says, “if I hadn’t come in and messed it up?”

Something hot spills down Zayn’s spine, “What.”

Louis’ face twists.

Zayn jerks away, starts towards the end of the bridge.

“Don’t you walk away, Malik!”

“Fuck you,” Zayn says, still walking.

Louis catches his arm, tugs him back sharply.

Zayn pulls his arm away, keeps walking, “Fuck off, Lou. You don’t get to –”

“I’m just asking,” Louis voice is all edges like rough shrapnel. “It’s a valid ques –”

“It fucking is not. What the fuck. You don’t get to judge us, you don’t get to demean it. And –“ Zayn swings around, “How dare you demean what you and Niall have.”

Louis stares at him, a statue of blue and black.

“What the hell, Lou?”

Something in the line of Louis’s body shakes, when he speaks, it’s too rough like they’ve been yelling for hours, “You love him.”

“ _Duh_.”

Louis shakes his head, “I mean when you look at him, you feel something, want something different.”

Zayn opens his mouth.

“I don’t mean something more, because what you have isn’t. What you have, Z, it’s so much. I never –“ Louis swallows hard and it shakes something deep in Zayn, because he looks like he’s going to cry and _Zayn_ feels like he wants to cry and what the fuck is - “I don’t. Never want to mess that up,” Louis finishes.

“You haven’t,” Zayn whispers. “I swear, Lou. And I don’t –”

“But you do.” Louis touches Zayn’s jacket.

“I –”

And Zayn’s thinking of the way that he feels when Niall shivers under his hands, he’s thinking of the way he wants to watch Harry press zir finger to his nose, he’s thinking of the unsteadiness of the past few weeks, rolling like a storm through his entire life, with an epicenter of NiallNiallNiall.

_No._

It’s not. It’s not possible.

He’s always been okay with Niall, it’s always just been _Niall_. And that’s all been good and reliable. Easy.

“What you want –“ Louis says, near silent.

“It’s not like that,” Zayn whispers.

“Okay,” Louis says, too agreeably.

Zayn looks at the line of his face, “Okay what?”

“It’s okay if you did want it to be like that.”

No, it’s not. It’s absolutely, completely, beyond a doubt _not_.

Louis edges his hand along Zayn’s arm and Zayn feels like all the bits of him are coming undone, all his rocks of balance, swept away in one fell tide.

Zayn clings to him, pushes his hands up Louis’ shirt and touches his overheated skin because he has to.

“Shh, you,” Louis’s nose tickles along Zayn’s temple.

“Shh, _you_ ,” Zayn bites back, muffled by the way his entire head is trying to tuck under Louis’ chin. His emotions feel like they’ve tripped up the stairs, only both his body and his heart have got the knee bruises to show for it, “Fucking asshole, you –”

“Shhhh,” Louis repeats, and this time, when he kisses the top of Zayn’s ear lightly, something slips within Zayn. One feather too many.

“I can’t,” Zayn fumbles, gritting his teeth against the hot rush of tears he can feel threatening. “I can’t do this. You can’t do this.” He shoves away from Louis.

“Zayn –”

“No, no,” Zayn turns around so he isn’t tempted by the softness in Louis’ face, “I’m not doing this. Fuck you for doing – for saying. I wasn’t –” he stops to take a deep breath. “I’m not doing this.”

He walks back towards the car, without looking back. Louis can either fucking follow or not.

Walking back takes ages, and no time at all, the streetlights blurring into the glass of buildings as Zayn focuses on his feet. Keys digging into his palms, he unlocks the jeep and looks up to see Louis on the other side of it, faint and not himself, like a leftover photocopy. Zayn looks at him for a moment and then reaches across to unlock the other door.

The drive back is too quiet. Louis still and Zayn holding onto the wheel too hard.

He watches the patterns of lights across the pavement, counts down the seconds till they change colors. Sometimes Zayn hates the way Austin always feels a little too casual. It’s a city but not in the stark and towering way that L.A. is or the determined and flowing way that San Fran is.

It makes him feel like nights like these are inevitable.

The garage door is a cacophony of noise at 4:30 AM, Louis seeming even more silent beside it, as he drifts into his room without looking back at Zayn.

Zayn grits his teeth and crawls back into bed, resolutely forcing his brain not to focus on anything that he can’t see in front of his own goddamn face, right here, right now. Harry is right where he left zir, cheek smushed resolutely into zir $40 dollar pillow and body akimbo. Sloppily, Zayn maneuvers his spaghetti limbs around zir.

Pasta isn’t a precise creature, Zayn thinks.

He squirms down into his side, and pulls the covers up close. The smell of Harry’s shampoo and Zayn’s shampoo and their body wash and a faint hint of candle wax wafts up like a wave. Just the exact same as usual. One of the few smells Zayn marks down wholeheartedly as _home_.

He freezes.

It seems ridiculous, the familiarity of it.

That he should leave this bed and return to it and it still smells exactly like always. Like Zayn doesn’t know Louis is staring at a ceiling two doors down, still pressing his tongue against this ache because he can’t let anything go without testing its edge.

He slides out of bed slowly, still manages to nearly take his charging cord out as a casualty. Zayn winces and glances back at Harry. Ze’s still out cold, though.

He breathes a quiet sigh and trip-tip-toes around the room back to the door. He eases it open again and then walks down the hall until he reaches the next door. There’s a faint light on in the room, which doesn’t mean anything.

Zayn turns the knob carefully, peeking in.

Liam is curled in the center of his bed, arms wrapped around his Batman pillow firmly. A smile flickers across Zayn’s face for a moment. He sighs quietly and edges forward into the room around the capri sun trash can.

He wakes Liam gently, presses a hand to his cheek like Liam does to him, “Liam.”

“Mm.”

“Li.”

“Mhhhhhm.”

“Bruce.”

Liam giggles sleepily into his pillow and Zayn can’t help smiling at him. Liam’s eyes peek open a second later, squinty and cute.

“Yeah, John?”

Zayn smiles for a second longer before he lets it go. He wishes he could leave Liam here, ignore the reality of the night, make it all okay by waking up to a new sun. But – but Louis is still probably picking at it, alone. “Louis needs you.”

Liam sits up instantly, blankets shuffling off his shoulders.

“Is he –”

“He’s okay,” Zayn winces, “Or you know. He’s. Fine, just.”

Liam frowns at him.

Zayn offers a vague shrug and a wobbly hand movement. If his limbs are spaghetti, his heart is a sloppy tomato, overcooked and strange to the touch.

 “Are you okay?” Liam asks quiet, focusing in on Zayn’s face for a moment.

“I have Harry.”

Liam’s lips curl at the non-answer of that.

“Okay,” he says, anyway.

Zayn closes his eyes for a second, relief sharp, opens them again to find Liam’s face so he can press a kiss to Liam’s cheek, “Thank you, love you, sorry.”

Liam noses along Zayn’s cheek, kisses the edge of his hairline, “S’okay, love you, go sleep.”

Zayn nods limply and goes.

Harry is where he left zir.

Zayn curls around zir and wills himself to sleep.

 _I don’t_ , he thinks at himself. _You don’t, you don’t and you can’t._

_Don’t think about it._

Morning dawns grey and hungover with night.

Breakfast walks that edge of too quiet and Zayn can’t deal with it. He heads out for his classes early and only halfheartedly answers texts from Harry and the rest of the world. Resolutely, he refuses to think about Louis or last night or anything having to do with blue or bridges or bars.

Instead, he works.

Occasionally, he watches his reflection in the mirror of his laptop in the library and tugs at his hair. He should probably get it cut. He won the bun competition and Harry has moved from annoyed to accepting back to prissy about it.

But there’s something he likes about it, the way the length settles something in him.

 _Pretty_ , he thinks.

His stomach clenches happily. He’s been called it before, but never in a way that made him feel good about it.

This is different, this is his.

Pulling the left side back behind his ear he bites at his lip. It could look very rokker; the earrings and the tats. It’s just missing something.

He sighs and lets go of his hair. _He’s_ just missing something, maybe.

Someone thumps down their books hard on the table and he jumps.

“Sorry,” they grin at him, spreading out a couple of bright textbooks on astronomy, a folder with a fluorescent galaxy print. Zayn shakes his head at it and pulls out his phone to text Niall – _Niall_.

He drops it like a hot coal back into his bag and shoves his face back into his work.

Office hours pass in a bit of a blur.

Wednesday follows the same pattern, and Thursday. Zayn goes on dates with Harry, hits up a party that Taylor throws for half-Halloween, whatever that means, and smiles as Taylor and Harry curl over her oven, arguing about nutmeg percentages. They’re matchy in polka dot dresses and Zayn thinks of Niall and Liam, off at a movie screening for the film department with matching hats and boots, if their instagrams are anything to go by.

He wonders what Louis is doing.

Zayn leaves Harry with Taylor and drives back home himself, arguing a headache. They smile at him, a little creepy with the doughy remains of gingerbread people crushed around them.

Zayn waves, and scoots.

Back home, he looks at the sight of Louis’ car in the driveway and drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a minute, then goes in. He finds Louis sitting cross-legged in the backyard, soccer ball on his lap and Louis’ eyes bagged and weary as he glares from Zayn back to the ball. Zayn squirrels himself onto the grass beside him.

“Let’s mess around,” he suggests, toes shoved under the warmth of Louis’ thigh.

Louis looks at him. “We’re still fighting.”

From anyone else, it would sound like a no.

Zayn shrugs enough for his shirt to slip down his shoulder a bit. Louis’ eyes trail down the line of Zayn’s collar and then back up.

“Fine,” Louis says and shoves the ball into Zayn’s chest hard enough to knock him over, “I love winning.”

Zayn pulls up to toss the ball back at Louis’ face, takes the opportunity to pull his feet up and tip Louis back into the grass. He falls with a surprised _oof_. Zayn pops up on the balls of his feet.

“Mhm. _Winning_.”

Louis swipes his legs out from under him.

“Fuck,” Zayn says as he falls. He lands with his arms braced in the grass and his legs twisted, unsteady.

A hand runs down his back, lingers at the base of his spine, makes him catch his breath, just before it pushes him off balance and back into the grass. He turns on his back to look up at Louis, framed by the setting sun and looking intense.

Zayn stretches himself a bit, rolls his hips around and watches Louis’ eyes track the movement. When he comes up from the ground, he’s smirking. Louis pulls back, one step, two.

Zayn throws a punch casually. Louis catches it, turns to dig his teeth into Zayn’s wrist before letting go.

A tingle runs up Zayn’s arm.

Louis swipes at his side. He twists, digs one hand hard into Louis’ inner thigh to pull him off balance. Gasping, Louis digs his fingers into Zayn’s back, pivots free of him.

A lunge. A bite sucked into Louis’ trapezius muscle. A slap. A pinch to Zayn’s nipple.

It’s rhythmic, familiar in that tinge of wrestling around in the park with Ant and Danny, proving his _guyness_ against another boy, who can get who to the ground. Less sexual then, but this is how it’s always been with Louis.

Louis grabs for Zayn’s dick.

Zayn pinches at Louis’ hip but lets him through. Louis plays dirty, likes to go from nothing to full throttle like the kickback is the best part.

But, he hits hard and Zayn feels his breath go out of him a bit.

“Careful,” he says, pointedly.

Louis ignores him, keeps the pressure there, impassive and twisting his hand a bit in a way that usually means he’s about to drop to his knees or about to drop Zayn’s jeans. Here, it’s painful, sharp, edged with something like sex but thicker, more molasses.

It’s difficult to breathe through.

Louis crowds him against the wooden post, one hand shoving away Zayn’s wrist, other hand still curling around him, sharp in Zayn’s pulse.

It’s not like it’s unusual for Louis to touch him like this or that he forgot he had a dick or something, it’s just. Zayn looks down at Louis’ hand on him, the digging feeling that feels like it’s pressing too hard at something in his stomach – it’s suddenly strange to be reminded. He’s still got Louis’ spit drying on his collar and wrist and arousal is simmering in him, but Louis is passively staring at some point over Zayn’s shoulder.

The sides of this game are pressing in, the proving shifting to something sick and strange inside Zayn.

It’s not about Zayn and Louis and who’s winning. It’s Zayn dick, and Louis.

Suddenly, it’s not fun.

Now, they’re only touching where Louis’ hand is still twisting at his dick, rote and intense and impersonal. It’s not insensitive, but it feels like his dick is the only thing that matters to Louis, not him. It’s – it’s making something flare uncomfortable and revolted in the back of Zayn’s throat. It feels like it’s happening to someone else, like it isn’t his body.

Or – he doesn’t want it to be.

He stares at Louis’ hand, sees the way it presses into the bulge, the way it outlines the shape of him starkly.

His stomach clenches with a wave of disgust.

“Red,” he gasps.

Red. _Red_ , he needs out.

Louis’ hand pulls away like it’s been burned.

“Zayn,” Louis curls over him without touching, looking panicked. “Zayn?”

“I – “ Zayn’s still gasping, trying to understand the lingering arousal mixing with this sharp overwhelming tangy bitterness under his tongue. He wants to curl up. He wants to get rid of his entire body.

“Z, check in. Where are you?”

Louis is still around him, hovering, voice gone high and stressed.

“I need,” Zayn says, shaky. He pulls his arms in around himself, sluggish as if waking up from 200 years of REM.

The air feels like soup.

“Zayn? You need what?” Louis’ hands flutter around him, “Did you take anything, love? Have you had water today?”

“No I’m –“

“No?”

“Not no, no. I didn’t. I have. I need to – “ Zayn heaves in a breath and fumbles with adjusting his pants where they’re digging in painfully. He hesitates before touching himself, stomach twisting with that same ugliness.

 _It’s_ your own _dick_ , he orders himself.

He shudders and shakily does it.

He can’t get comfortable.

“Zayn –“

Louis’ is shaking beside him. Worry like a cloud swarming above them.

“Shh,” Zayn says, “I just – shh.”

Louis quiets, but his movements grow, anxious and crowding.

Zayn needs to get away.

He trips himself away from the post, trying not to touch any part of Louis with any part of himself. Their clothes catch and tug.

“Love,” Louis says, broken and nearly silent.

A hook burns in Zayn’s spine as he stumbles into the house.

He leaves Louis, alone and standing in the yard.

His bed is cold and dark behind the locked door, under the shelter of Maura’s thickest quilt he steals from the linen closet.

“You’re okay,” he tells himself, “You’re fine.”

Right.

He stares at the shaky blurs of his fingers for a long time past when dinner is called, when Harry comes frowning to curl up with him, before sleep trudges in after zir and takes him willingly into the blankness. 

Friday, the sky rolls in dark and Zayn stares at it through the window, as he brushes his teeth. He avoids the mirror like it’s pointing a finger at him. There’s something lingering inside of it.

Louis is probably laughing in the third row of Child Development right now. Or he would be, usually. Maybe Zayn’s made him go quiet.

Zayn closes his eyes and accepts the ache in his shoulders.

If Harry’s rising eyebrows and increasingly frizzy hair is anything to go by – ze isn’t oblivious to the tension. Ze and Niall have taken to whispering in the corners of rooms, both of their faces unhappy. Seeing them together hurts something low in Zayn.

He hates that they’re so closely wound that one thing off with any two of them ripples across the rest of them.

He calls home, that afternoon, tucked away in the living room loveseat while everyone else is out and Harry is doing something with phone calls to foundation members.

His dad and mom are going on a date later and he grins into his phone, ribs them gently for it while Doniya helps in the background. Zayn promises next time he’s in town to bring back more red hots for Safaa, “And a few _extra_ , yeah!” she adds and he laughs, agrees. Jawaad is back home from Philly this week and it pangs sad to Zayn. He didn’t even know.

He takes the time to ask about his stats course.

“You don’t wanna know,” Jawaad mutters darkly.

Zayn laughs.

They’re talking about how things have changed even since last time they were back home, how the new halal place a few streets down is “covered in orange spider webs right now. Walked face fucking first into three of them.”

“Halloween,” Zayn commiserates, even as he grins.

There’s a shadow over Zayn’s lap and Harry plops down heavily.

“Ugh,” he grunts and pulls the phone a bit away from his ear, hissing, “Harry, get off.”

“I’m trying,” Harry whispers, and bites at Zayn’s arm.

“No, not – Sorry J, one sec,” He looks properly at Harry and then blinks a bit. Zayn didn’t know they made lace that see through with that much glitter. Fuck’s sake.

“C’mon, get your cock out,” Harry wiggles in his lap and that’s just. Not what he wants. An echo of that sickness from earlier in the week with Lou rumbles in his stomach.

Zayn grits his teeth and mutters into the phone, “I’ll call you back, Jawaad.”

Jawaad cackles like he heard Harry across the line and Zayn drops the phone onto the couch beside them. He clenches his fists to stop from reflexively putting his hands on Harry’s hips.

“What the hell, Harry. That was my cousin.”

Ze shrugs and rocks a bit more against Zayn’s lap. “C’mon, he’s a guy he gets it.”

Zayn’s nails dig into his skin. “What does that mean,” he says, too sharp.

“You all are like, constantly on about your cocks,” Harry crosses zir arms. “Get real.”

“I,” Zayn focuses on the crinkly edge of Harry’s collar, aware that this is rapidly turning too sour to recover from, but not sure how to stop it, “am not.”

“So, you don’t like it when I come up to you in public and ask for it?” Ze leans forward, eyes a too-sharp green, “When I ask specifically for your dick?”

Fucking Harry.

Fucking Harry and zir too blunt words and too sharp eyes under layers of sweet, sweet charm. Fucking Harry and zir entire way of sloshing everything up in Zayn and turning him upside down with a flick of the wrist.

He likes it, but he doesn’t like how it’s making him feel right now.

“This is different.”

“So, you don’t want me to do that anymore?”

Zayn hits the back of his head against the loveseat cushion. “That’s not what I said, Harry.”

Harry rolls zir eyes and huffs mightily. “Boys. Fucking incredible.”

Zayn pushes zir off his lap, too rough. Ze stumbles back with a grunt.

“I’m not –“ Zayn starts and then stutters to a stop. _A boy_.

He is a boy. He _is_ a boy.

What the fuck.

 _What_ -

“You are not better than other guys just because you’re with a trans person, Zayn,” Harry says, voice twisted.

It hits Zayn in the chest.

“What.”

_What is happening._

“That is not what I – I would never have, Haz. I’m sorr– “

“Right, then what were you gonna say then, huh?” Harry’s fists are clenched tight, the bright fushia of nails just visible like a blood red sun on the horizon.

“I –“

Zayn keeps focusing on things in too-focused details.

The plate of chips left on the coffee table. A football stuck into the beanbag. Their carefully arranged and argued over shelves, steady and firm against the back wall.

Zayn feels dizzy.

“S’what I thought,” and now Harry is crying furiously. “You’re such a shit, like what the fuck. I’m just me and you’re just all over the place lately, trying to rack up asshole points.”

Zayn’s anger flares, wobbly in his arms, “I’m not trying to fuck anything up. This isn’t all my fault.”

“Then, why are you fighting with Louis?”

“I’m not your parent, Harry,” Zayn scoffs. “I can fight with other members of the household.”

“Not when it affects us all!”

“We all fight,” Zayn shouts back. “What the hell do you think we’re doing right now? Or do you need an explanation for that, too?”

“Fuck off, Zayn,” Harry says, striding out of the room.

“Fuck off, Harry,” he says back, not at all watching zir go.

The room echoes hard in Zayn’s ears. After a moment of it, he drops his head to his hands and holds on. The world still feels like a roller coaster.

What.

The fuck.

He pulls his hands down to stare at them for a moment. Pen mark from grading those exams, scar on the left index finger from reaching across the stove at 7, the mandala he’d fallen in love with from first glance on his wrist, ink splatter on the inside of the other.

They’re shaking.

He has to get out of here.

Too fast to avoid bumping his toes on corners, he digs a pair of beaten up trainers out from the wall closet to shove on and grabs his keys out of the dresser bowl. The door swings shut loudly.

He runs.

The world turns to smears that he can’t focus on anymore. He breathes deep and pushes faster.

Five minutes later, the stitch in his side is threatening to split him in half. He crouches a bit, wheezing.

It’s just what he needs.

He breathes steadily until he can barely feel the ache, staring at a perfect fallen leaf, tucked into someone’s gate.

Then, he runs again.

Stops. Runs. Stops.

He goes steadily, without letting himself focus on where his feet are turning or who stares at him.

By the time he stops, his legs have turned to lead and he’s almost tripped 3 times in about as many minutes. He breathes unevenly and leans back against a wire fence, feeling the metal cut sharply into his back.

He watches the traffic for a moment, as people pass in front of him.

If he wasn’t worn and devoting all his energy to the next breath, just the next breath, he thinks he could cry.

The walk back is long.

He stops finally, down the road from their place, on Mrs. Martin’s lawn bench. Cookie barks from the backyard happily, tail wagging furiously.

He gives a small smile and waves to her.

The sweat’s cooled tacky on his skin and the sky has started to turn greyscale for the night. He knows he needs to get home.

He still doesn’t know what’s going on, with him or with them.

Zayn knows they fight a lot more than most couples anyway, but. They’re fighting even more than usual lately. The air between them feels like it’s gone static-y and prone to shocking when they reach out to each other.

Zayn wonders if it’s him.

If whatever is lodged inside his throat hasn’t worked its way to his fingertips to spread to everything he touches.

But Harry’s been volatile, too. Nit-picking and taciturn, sliding smooth into the rhythm of them, only to be angry with the tempo.

“God,” he whispers, fingers pressed to the growing ache in his temple. His whole body aches.

The light in Mrs. Martin’s yard comes on, a brilliant blue for a moment, as if the world has been dunked underwater for an instant. Zayn watches it distantly, vision unfocused.

He just wants them to be steady. The back and forth is so tiring, even normally.

But now, now it’s like Zayn doesn’t have anything left over, wrangling with this thing inside of his mirror, this thing inside of his heart, and this thing between them.

“I’m just one person,” Zayn says, quietly.

Even quieter, in the quiet of his ribs, where no one can hear it and steal it away, he thinks he wishes it wasn’t just the one of him and the one of Harry. It’s happening more and more, that Zayn gets this sense that there’s something off about their balance, that they’re missing something – _someone_.

Zayn feels sick with it, feels sick with the sudden feeling that there should be another, or more, should be a temper to their coldhot.

They’ve already got so many. He doesn’t know why it isn’t enough. Doesn’t know why he can’t just be fucking happy with what he has.

The sky is a blurry black.

Fingers scrubbing at his eyes, he gets up. Might as well. He doesn’t have anything much to lose.

Their driveway is empty, which means Liam, Louis and Niall aren’t back yet. They’re probably out, maybe at Paul’s and any other night Zayn would be aching to join them.

Tonight, Harry is framed in the light from the kitchen and Zayn is tired.

He calls softly as he enters, “Harry?”

There’s a clang and then a throat clearing, “Kitchen,” Harry calls back, low.

Keys in the bowl, shoes in the closet, toe stub on the floor divider.

He comes into the kitchen to see Harry, curls sloppy in a half-bun and one of Liam’s flannels on over glaring highlighter-yellow athletic shorts.

Ze is working on a charcoal piece over the sink because ze always says it “just cleans better. At least, Niall says so.” It’s a mess of lines and crosshatching.

It looks sad.

“I tried texting but...” Harry shrugs and waves the charcoal a bit.

“Didn’t have my phone,” Zayn says, and his voice cracks hard.

Harry winces and reaches over on the counter to grab a bottle of water. “Idiot,” ze shoves it at him.

Zayn takes it, suddenly dying of thirst. He drinks it down carefully, though, all too aware of what happens when any of them overwork themselves and try and hydrate too fast. He forces himself to stop halfway through, panting even with that.

Harry’s watching him, fingers white tinged on zir charcoal stick.

“You’ll break it,” he says, lightly, as he plays with the bottle cap.

Heaving a deep breath, Harry closes zir eyes and then places the charcoal on the nearby paper towels. Ze turns around to pull the canvas off the sink and wash zir hands. Zayn hands zir the towel from the table and ze dries zir hands quietly.

“Are we gonna talk about it, finally?” Harry asks.

Zayn closes his eyes for a beat and then swallows, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. Sighing, ze puts down the towel, “You wanna shower?”

“Yeah – please.”

Harry nods again.

“You can, if you wanna come with?” Zayn fidgets with the water bottle, takes another sip, “If you don’t have anything else, you know.”

Harry’s hand touches his fingers lightly, nails popping against both of their skin. Zayn looks up to see zir tucking curls behind zir ear, face soft, “I don’t have anything else, Zayn. Probably be a long talk, too. And I need to shave my legs anyway.” Ze smiles, “Two birds.”

“Okay,” Zayn breathes deep.

They’re careful with each other in the bathroom, tentative and mindful, if not precise. Zayn avoids looking in the mirror like he’s been doing the past few days and Harry notes it with a furrowed brow.

He showers slowly, muscles crying out under the heat. Harry sits on the counter and does something to the frizz in zir hair, muttering under zir breath just loud enough to be a hum above the air vent.

It’s more comforting than zir talking directly at him would be. The sound helping him turn everything rote and habitual in a good way. Which, when Zayn thinks about it, is probably why ze did it. He swallows hard, leaning his temple against the cool of the tile for a second.

He doesn’t linger long, scrubbing the shampoo out of his hair and tipping himself into the towel pulled from the rack. Harry hits the air vent to off and eases around him to sit on the edge of the tub.

The towel feels rough against Zayn’s head, sharp against his chest.

Water splashes loud in the enclosed tiles. Harry sets up zir equipment steadily around zir.

Zayn takes a deep breath and starts them off. “You were wondering what Louis said to me, earlier.”

Harry fumbles the shaving cream a little bit and then inhales and exhales once. “Yeah, I was,” ze says.

Zayn looks at Harry.

Ze looks back at him, calm, hair a bushel of curls and eyes bright and focused under them.

“He told me that. That I wanted to date Niall,” Zayn says, looking down at his hands, “Or to be romantic or something else other than what we are.”

Harry is quiet and still in Zayn’s peripheral vision. Zayn twists his hands together.

“What you are,” ze says, eventually.

“What?” Zayn looks up.

Balancing on the tub better, Harry reaches down and starts shaving. “Do you even know what you are? Do any of us know what we are?”

Zayn opens his mouth – and then closes it.

They’re all friends. But they’re also probably more, and also, something else, _other_. Zayn wouldn’t put any of them in the same box as any other ‘friends’. Not even Danny or Ant.

“No,” he says, honestly.

“Okay,” Harry says, “Because I was starting to feel like the only one fucking confused.” Ze sounds a little prissy. Zayn laughs quietly. Because this is how his partner is reacting to zir love of zir life possibly wanting to fuck up one of the most stable and important relationships they have: a little prissy at the idea not knowing something tangentially related.

“No, not the only one.”

“Good.”

Harry swishes the razor in the water loudly.

Zayn watches as Harry shaves carefully around zir kneecap, the precise twists and turns like Harry’s hand with a pastel or a paintbrush. Harry’s body is zir canvas in more ways than one, Zayn realizes. It’s not just tattoos and sharpies.

“Is he right?”

 _Maybe_.

Zayn takes another deep breath. “I want Niall things.”

“You have Niall things,” Harry says reasonably, “We all have Niall things. Niall things are well organized and squishy. We love them.”

“No, I know I just – I want,” Zayn swallows against the prickle of tears in the back of his throat. “I want _me and Niall_ things.” _You and me and Niall things,_ Zayn thinks, pulling at his lip. _I want us three._

Harry shaves the rest of zir leg in one stroke and dips it back into the water. Zayn watches the hair swirl around.

“Things like what things?” Harry’s voice is careful.

“I don’t know,” Zayn whispers.

“Really?”

A flash of anger curls around Zayn.

“Really. What do you think, I like being confused and fucking everything up?”

Harry smears a dollop of shaving cream on Zayn’s leg. Ze glances up and when Zayn doesn’t say anything, starts shaving a line down his calf. Zayn’s anger swirls away like a drain stopper pulled sharply, leaving a vacuum to pull in something strange and heavy in his chest in its place.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Harry says, softly, but Zayn hardly hears it.

Harry shaves his leg gently and Zayn watches, breathlessly.

It’s not like they’ve never done this before. Half of Zayn’s tattoos are ridiculous home ones, scratched into his skin under Harry’s careful paint-stained hands.

But it’s never been like this. Zayn’s never had the urge to ask Harry how to do it or why ze goes with the direction of the hair instead of against it. He’s never wanted to suddenly just get rid of it all, all the hairy splotches ripped off like band-aids. He thinks of the smoothness of Harry’s legs and chin with a sudden longing.

 _Liam does it_ , Zayn says to himself, wistful. _I could do it._

“Z? You okay?” Harry’s hands are still on his leg, one rubbing gently on the just shaved patch on his thigh. The texture is unreal.

“I’m –” Zayn clears his throat but it doesn’t seem to help, “feeling weird.”

“Bad weird?”

“No.” No, not bad.

“You want me to keep going?”

 _Yes_.

“Is it okay if you do?” Zayn asks, voice small. It’s taking Harry a lot more, a lot longer with his and he knows Harry buys organic cream because it doesn’t make zir skin react badly. Plus, why – why would he even need –

“Yes,” Harry says, firmly.

“Okay.”

Harry is careful with the shaving, precise with zir tongue between zir teeth in a way Zayn realizes is probably hard won. Harry’s probably one of the least coordinated people he’s ever met. Ze finishes with one leg and moves onto the next, with a glance up at Zayn for a second. He nods and ze moves faster this time, like ze’s got the hang of it better.

He watches.

“Earlier this week,” Zayn says, throat scratchy, “I was having messing around with Louis and something happened.”

“Something like this?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, voice barely a whisper. “Only, not good.”

“Hmm.”

Harry finishes shaving his leg carefully.

Zayn marvels down at the look of them, of the lack of hair. He didn’t think it would be that different, but it feels like _more_. Feels light in an unreasonable way.

It’s all so confusing.

“It’s so confusing,” Zayn says out loud.

“What’s confusing?” Harry asks softly, as ze cleans off the razor.

“Everything,” Zayn whispers. “Everything is. Why do I feel like this? Why did I think that I wasn’t a boy? What is this? Why did Louis say that about Niall? Why did it feel true? Why am I fucking everything up – “ he chokes himself off.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, touching his shoulder. “Hey,” he lets zir pull him around. Zir hand goes to his cheeks and he realizes he’s crying.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Harry’s thumbs brush away his tears. “Okay, okay.”

“S’not okay.”

Harry bends down a bit to catch his gaze, zir eyes bright and large and deep enough for Zayn to fall into heart-first like he did back then, has done every day since.

“We’re gonna make it okay, baby.”

Zayn’s eyes sting. “How?”

Harry leans forward to press their foreheads together.

“We’re gonna answer it, okay. We’re gonna figure it out,” ze says, “You know I love a challenge.”

“We?” Zayn asks, hates the weak wobble of his voice.

Harry kisses his cheek, infinitely gentle. “I’m not going anywhere, okay. I’m staying right here with you.”

 _Promise me_ , Zayn wants to demand. _Promise me you’re staying. Don’t go away again. Please stay with me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone with myself._

But he can’t. He knows he can’t make zir. Knows he shouldn’t.

“I miss you so much,” He says, instead, feels more tears rush hotly down his cheeks.

“Oh, babe,” Harry says softly.

He hates feeling like the weak one with them.

But, he holds onto Niall’s shirt on Harry’s shoulders and cries, and feels like he needs to be weak for a while. Like he’s needed to, for a long while.

Harry guides them both into bed gently, pulling up the drain and shutting off the lights.

“We still need to –“ They haven’t talked about half the things they needed to, meant to. Zayn just came in and dropped his emotions on Harry’s lap.

“We will,” Harry mutters and pulls off the wet towel around Zayn’s hips and nudges him towards bed. He goes, flopping across the blankets like his limbs have turned to stone. “Later. You’re exhausted.”

“You’re exhausted,” Zayn mumbles back, but he’s already drifting.

He dreams of nothing, of a heavy blanket and a vast space.

 

 

The sun is soft, on his cheek.

There’s someone murmuring beside him. Zayn reaches out a hand and hits the side of Harry’s hip. He brushes his thumb against the texture of zir stretch marks, the soft slide of them familiar and comforting.

The voice pauses, then continues. A hand drops to the nape of his neck.

“...just a week, Jeff, please. A few days. A day. An hour.”

Zayn frowns fuzzily into the sheets, he’s drifting a little, with the hand strokes. He can tell by the way he blinks one moment and then Harry is lying back down beside him, their hair tangled like lovers in the space between their pillows.

“Hey,” he says this time.

“Hey.”

Harry is looking at him, easy as any other morning in the past few years they’ve been together. Not judging.

“Breakfast?” Zayn says, voice hoarse.

Harry laughs and leans over to zir bedside table, “You and Niall, honestly.” And then freezes.

Zayn smiles, rueful and reaches out a hand to rub his knuckles against zir spine, “S’fine, H.”

Zir body relaxes under his hands and Harry leans back with a plate of fruit and toast. Zayn eats, smiling at the taste of blueberry jam.

Harry notices. Ze rubs zir nose against his shoulder, “S’gross, but you like it.”

“Thank you, Haz,” Zayn says, leaning his head against zirs for a minute.

Harry drinks a smoothie, as Zayn eats and sips at the water on the bedside. He doesn’t really want it, but he has a feeling from the way that the door is shut and locked, the unusually low noises of the rest of the house, that a talk is imminent on the horizon.

Finishing with the reddest strawberry, he puts the plate on the table on his bedside.

Harry watches him, leaning over to put zir smoothie tumbler on zirs.

Zayn nudges his way back down to the pillows, and twists his fingers in the sheets.

“C’mere?” he whispers.

Harry sighs a soft, “Of course,” and snuggles in so close Zayn has to laugh a little bit, nose pressed to Harry’s hair and Harry’s arms around him, leg through his. The texture of their bare skin together is something else, something that makes Zayn’s breath catch and his stomach feel happy. Like being at the top of a hill and looking down at the world.

They still fit together like always.

It never matters how long Harry is gone, or how jumbled Zayn is, they fit together in a way that makes Zayn’s chest lax. He presses his fingers to the ridges of Harry’s ribs. His thumb settles at the line of the moth’s delicate wing, like always. Harry’s hand trails along his side to settle over his hip, thumb to the heart like an echo.

Zayn smiles against his pillow and lets some of the tension in his shoulders float away.

He’s safe here.

“So,” Harry says quietly, “you and Niall.”

“More like, just me about Niall.” His mouth twists, rueful.

Harry pauses.

Then, ze says, “You and Niall.”

Heat floats up to Zayn’s cheeks. “Stop.”

Harry purses zir lips.

Zayn takes a deep breath. “What I feel about Niall – I don’t know. But it’s different. Not not-romantic.” Zayn closes his eyes against the words.

“ _Is_ it romantic?” Harry doesn’t sound bothered.

“Maybe?”

“Okay.”

Zayn clenches his eyelids tighter, “Is it okay?”

“Zee,” Harry says, quiet and close.

“What.” Worry feels like a trapped moth, fluttering against the cage of his spine.

“It is okay.”

“Why is it okay?” Zayn asks, a bubble of ridiculous frustration rising in his throat. “Like why would you be alright with that, H?”

“You can’t help who you fall in love with, Zayn, you know that,” Harry says, cajoling, voice too sweet.

He pulls open his eyes to look at zir. In the sprinkled sun, tattoos like moving art, ze is like something out of a storybook of dreams, like something visceral and real and thriving. A muscle twitches in zir chest. Zayn follows it up to zir eyes, the starkness of them cold against the warmth of zir words, like something pent up and struggling.

An idea flickers in Zayn’s head.

“Do _you_ know that?”

Harry flinches.

Ze plays it off, chin stubborn, “Sure yeah, you know I do. We were together when David and –“

“No, not,” Zayn wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist. Zir heart jackrabbits against his fingertips. “Not then. Now.”

Harry shrugs into the pillows.

“Niall?” Zayn asks, quietly.

Zir jaw flexes.

 _Fuck_.

“Fuck,” Zayn whispers.

Something strange boils in his body, the feeling a worn and gold-plated tome too big and complicated to translate. His arm feels heavy.

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t – I would have,” Harry stutters to a stop.

“Harry –“

“I was just considering. The opportune time.”

Zayn’s arm pulls back, his body curling in of its own accord.

Considering _what_? Considering how ze also, apparently has a something for Niall, tucked up inside zir like a watermelon plant from a children’s horror story? And -

“When exactly is ‘the opportune time’ for _that_ , Harry?”

Harry huffs, face going a little red, “I’m sure it would have occurred to me when it was opportune.”

Zayn looks at zir for a long moment, zir eyelashes trembling and fingers scratching at the quilt by Zayn’s knee. He knows Harry better than maybe anyone.

“Would you ever have said anything?” he asks, eventually.

Harry’s face pinches. “Whose business is it.”

No, then.

“Hell, Haz,” Zayn says and turns to the ceiling to try and find his balance.

“I just wanted to be – I didn’t know this would.” Harry cuts zirself off and Zayn is fiercely glad for one moment that hearts exist on the inside of the body so he doesn’t have to see what his is doing right now. He grits his teeth together.

“Do you not wanna like –“ Zayn breathes deep, “Do you want me to _not_?”

“No – no, I just, have to,” Harry thumbs at zir lip, “Adjust, maybe.”

Right.

Zayn waits a moment but Harry doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t know that he can say it though. _I still don’t even know what it is_ , he wants to shout.

He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Adjust to me maybe feeling something or me maybe feeling something for –“ _Niall_.

There’s a quiet moment while Zayn traces the sheet imprint on Harry’s arm. Then, a sniffle sound. He looks over to see Harry’s face blotchy, tears trickling out of the corners of zir eyes. He jerks up to curl over zir, tugging them close. Harry feels hot and unhappy in his arms and god, this whole fucking mess has been one thing after another.

“What, Haz –  What’s wrong? Babe?” He cups zir face.

“I just never thought that, it would be a possible thing to –“ Harry hiccups.

“To what?” He brushes tear lines from Harry’s cheeks, murmuring nonsense without realizing he is.

“To have him as a possibility.”

Zayn presses his forehead to Harry’s overheated brow. His breathing feels too shallow. He’s not even sure yet if this is a possible thing in _himself_ and Harry is – _Two speeds_ , Zayn thinks. _No or Go_.

He wants to say, put on the break, _Harry, I need a mo’_ , wants to say, _fucking hell, fuck, fucking fuck_. Wants to give over his hand and have Harry lead him through this.

“For him to be a possibility for us,” Harry whispers, lips catching against Zayn’s stubble.

Us.

 _Us_.

Zayn’s hands tremble.

“Us?” he asks, barely a breath.

“Us.” Harry presses zir lips to the corner of Zayn’s mouth, not a kiss, but a reassurance, a familiarity.

Zayn wants to sink into it, wants to cry himself, let him and Harry just pool into the sheets and never surface.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

Nothing in their relationship has ever been like this. None of their potential partners has been someone with this much weight between them. It feels like enough to capsize their accustomed rocking. It feels big. Maybe too big.

None of their potentials have ever been an _already-something_.

“I’m scared, too,” Harry says.

Oh.

Zayn leans his head down into the curve of Harry’s neck and lets himself cry for the second time in two days. Harry wraps zir arms and legs around Zayn’s neck and waist and cries back and everything smells like their shampoo and everywhere is Harry and Zayn’s nose is running, but the world is just as confused and disgusting as he is.

There’s something like a comfort in that.

There’s a lot of strength in Harry’s hold.

He lets them cry it out. It’s not the first time they’ve cried on each other and the snot is still disgusting but, but Zayn wouldn’t rather be with anyone else.

There’s no one else who knows to press down on the top of his spine like Harry does. No one else kisses his cheek while crying and doesn’t judge him for sobbing because of it. No one else takes the shaky untidy edges of himself and smoothes a line through his crumbled chest and says, “I love you, I love you,” and means this too, means Zayn like this too.

“I love you,” Zayn says back, and means Harry like this too.

The pillows sacrifice themselves to the cause long before they’re both cried out, groddy and dumped on the floor and some part of Zayn is glad for the obvious signs of it, of them, gross and together like this.

Gradually, the waves come slower.

They settle close but not touching, quivering muscles unjudging and moving back and forth like a strange game of ping pong. Harry lets the tissue box prop between them and they take turns complaining about their sore noses. Zayn grabs a water from the floor and passes it over.

“Knew being slobs would come in handy,” he croaks.

“I’ll tell our moms,” Harry rasps back.

They drink slow, letting their bodies resettle, reshape into the bed, and eventually, into each other.

Zayn drifts for a little bit, his peaked headache subsiding as he drinks and rubs circles into Harry’s knee. Ze rubs echoes into his forearm. Breathing patterns together, they pass time without Zayn being able to get a hand around it.

He knows they’re not done. This isn’t resolved and there’s still – the other.

But he feels the better for it, for having been shaky and loud, like just having his outsides match his insides for a bit has relaxed something inside of him. Some voice saying, _just look at me, just acknowledge me!_

He breathes when Harry exhales.

Eventually, of course, knowingly, Harry says, “And the other thing…”

Zir hands are firm against Zayn’s skin, unhesitating.

Zayn closes his sore eyes. He can do this. “I’ve been feeling things about,” He breathes. “About myself. Something about myself.”

“Okay,” Harry says.

Harry shifts in his arms a little bit. One of zir thumbs rubs a continuous outline on the heart over Zayn’s hip. Zayn tries to find the familiar ease in it, tries to sink down into Harry’s steadiness.

“Is the something a gender thing?”

“Yes,” Zayn says, his voice cracking in the whisper.

“Okay.”

_Is it?_

It doesn’t feel like it is.

“I’m scared,” Zayn says, because if Harry can say it then he can too, the two of them still tangled together, wrapped up in snot and tear trails.

Harry traces the line of the heart.

“It is scary. But it’s also,” Harry whispers, thumb pressing down into the center of the ink, “it can be so amazing, Zayn. It can be beautiful and happy.”

It hasn’t felt beautiful and happy.

But.

But if it could –

“Yeah?” Zayn breathes, voice shying away from the chance of a no.

Harry’s leg rubs soft along Zayn’s.

“When I was 16,” Harry says, beginning to draw swirls out from the heart. “I fell in love.”

Zayn didn’t know this.

“I fell in love with a reflection of myself, tucked away in a bathroom, trying to be four genders at once.”

“Oh.”

“I have a happy gender story, Zayn.” Harry tilts zir head against the pillows and smiles a bit, “Mom found out and she was so good about it and she gave me resources and Gemma told people to fuck off whenever they said anything to me that wasn’t ‘you’re gorgeous’. I’ve never been in a place where I’m afraid to say something like, I want to shave my legs. Even here, like,” Harry laughs a bit, “we live in _Austin_.”

Zayn did know this.

“So I don’t know that fear, that terror of not being sure. Of having to te – of any of it.” Harry cuts zirself off and Zayn appreciates it so much, he doesn’t wanna think about telling anyone, about the future or about more than anything than he has to right now.

“But Zayn,” Harry cups his face, “I am here for you. I want to be here for you in every, every way that I can be and I never want you to feel alone or like you can’t talk about it. Or,” Harry rubs zir thumbs along his cheekbones, “like you _have_ to talk about it, if that’s how you feel, either.”

Zayn drags in a ragged breath and Harry’s hands brush at his eyes, the tears gathering for another round.

“Okay, thank you,” Zayn says, wishes it could encompass the extent of the feeling he has, the extent of the gratitude and weight and love he feels.

“And,” Harry says quietly, “I know there is beauty and happiness in this, for you.”

Zayn’s body drums loud in his ears.

“Okay,” Zayn skates his lips along Harry’s chin, kissing along the sharp slope like tripping up the stairs home. “Thank you.”

Harry drags his face together with zirs.

Zayn kisses back and tries to press their bodies into one. Just for a moment, just for one breath like Harry didn’t wish anything before ze knew this, like Zayn didn’t dream anything before he lived this. Harry bites down like it’s too much and Zayn bites back. He knows.

Harry’s hands scratch down the back of Zayn’s neck and he gasps for zir.

“Can we – are you okay, is this okay, tell me what you want –” Harry mumbles against him, voice nearly gone.

“Please...” Zayn says, because he wants and he wants and everything feels like fresh air where their skin is sliding together, but there’s still a metal hook of fear low in him that he could – that it might, and he believes Harry when Harry says it can be beautiful but this is too. “Just - this.”

This is what he wants.

Harry’s hands holding him together.

Zayn’s lungs sprinting a trail across Harry’s collarbones, across zir strong, shaking shoulders, down to zir fingers.

No clothes or cloth between them, but something stronger like understanding, like a _just this_ keeping Harry’s hips just so, tilted away from Zayn’s. Them burning, cooling, gasping, sighing in the space between them.

It fills Zayn from the outside-in, how good they are, how good Harry is to him, how good he can be to Harry.

“I love that we can do this,” Zayn says, when they’re resting, lips bruised and a bite mark or four throbbing in tempo for both of their hearts. Because he’s never had anyone else who would do this with him, would make a new kind of sensuality with him, separate from sex.

Harry smiles at him from the other side of the bed. Zir eyes are still clumped together with lingering salt and zir chest is heaving. Ze looks peaceful. “Me too.”

Zayn reaches out a hand to clasp their fingers together.

They lay there for a long while, just breathing, their fingers falling asleep twined close.

Zayn spends the next few days feeling a little blank, a little crying hungover. He goes to class by habit and office hours by memory. Layan glares at him as he floats in and out of the room.

“If you’re ill, go home, Malik.”

“No,” he shakes his head, insists, “I’m fine.”

He drinks a lot of water that Harry shoves at him.

“Am I okay?” he asks, letting zir drive him back home one afternoon, he realizes, “I’m letting you drive.”

“You’re just dealing with it, Zayn,” Harry says softly, hand wrapped around Zayn’s thigh.

Zayn looks down and realizes it’s because he’s got a chokehold on Harry’s wrist, keeping it there. “Oh.”

“And,” Harry sniffs, haughtily, “I’m a great driver.”

“Harry,” Zayn says.

“Yes?”

“I’m in shock, not dealing with memory loss. Please don’t lie to me.”

Harry squawks and Zayn laughs.

They make it home safe.

He begins to feel a little better about it all, a little clearer like he’s come out from the bathroom after a long soak, not realizing that the air behind him was clouded and full. It’s refreshing.

The next day, he breezes through classes and a meeting with his advisor, skips the library and sees Harry off with Daisy and Aimee for a day having to do with shots and knitting. He smiles and doesn’t ask. Then, he tiptoes his way into Louis’ space, tugs just barely on his sleeve.

“Louis?”

Louis doesn’t jerk away, which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could just be plotting how best to kill him with the play-doh he’s organizing for his students.

“Can we,” Zayn keeps his voice low, arms wrapped around his knees. “Talk, please?”

Louis squishes the lid onto a purple blob. “Sure. Talk.”

Zayn’s mouth twists.

The kitchen is empty except for them, prickly on the dirty floor. But, the rest of the house is in full swing. Niall has friends over and Zayn doesn’t recognize half of them and Liam has a study group over and Zayn may recognize them but he certainly doesn’t want to talk with or around them. Liam’s about the only bearable jock.

“Please, Lou?”

Louis heaves a giant sigh and drops two things of play-doh on the floor and steps over the whole colorful mess to the hallway. “Fine.”

Zayn pushes up and follows Louis into his room, trying not to dig his nails into his own arms.

Louis slaps the door shut after them and drops down onto the laundry-basket-slash-bed. Leaving the light switch unflipped, Zayn fumbles his way to the edge of the bed, crawls on carefully, watching the shadowy side of Louis’ face, closed to the faint late afternoon light.

He stays, perched there.

Louis messes with the corners of the sheets, pulls them sloppier.

“So,” Louis says, eventually.

“So,” Zayn says.

“Talking?”

Right.

“I uhm,” He takes deep measured breaths, “Wanted to talk. About. The other day.”

“Did you?” Louis cuts back, vicious.

“Yes.”

Zayn curls his fingers into the sheets, waits it out. Louis isn’t all mad, the same way a volcano isn’t all fire, it’s just what you see from a distance, because it’s too dangerous to go into the crater to look deeper.

The rhythm of Louis’ chest slows in the shadows. Zayn counts seconds in groups of three.

Finally, Louis tosses his arm over his head and makes a soft sound.

Zayn makes a questioning _mm?_ in response.

“Okay,” Louis mumbles into his arm, lowers it slowly to turn his head.

Zayn can’t quite find his eyes in the dark, this far from him, but he nods back, takes in air like a hungry tire.

He shifts closer and Louis puts his arm down by his side, by Zayn.

 _Okay_ , Zayn thinks, _okay_. _Just simple_. Him and Harry talked about this. He doesn’t have to share anything he’s not comfy sharing.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Zayn starts at the root of it, “For not, not staying to debrief and talk about me safewording out.”

Louis moves strangely.

“I’m sorry I put us into that and then made you think it was you. That you were the problem,” Zayn finishes at a whisper, watches the blur of Louis’ face closely as the lines shift and crumple in. “I’m sorry, Lou. We can debrief later if you want or not, and I – I’m gonna be 200% better in the future.”

Silence.

Outside the window, bugs serenade the late summer.

Louis is quiet for long enough that Zayn’s throat starts burning a little, unresolved.

He waits.

“Accepted,” Louis says, at length, sharp and like it isn’t a balm to Zayn. His voice sounds scratched and pummeled.

Zayn closes his eyes for one long moment, “Thank you.”

Louis shifts, hands fluttering before settling back down. “Welcome.”

Shuffling closer, Zayn lets himself breathe deep. He counts it, tries to steady himself, the both of them.

“I’ve been feeling some things,” he continues, “and I don’t want you to think it’s you, because it isn’t but I also don’t want to talk about it yet,” Zayn tries to keep his voice from shaking, “I don’t know when I will want to talk about it, if ever.”

“Okay,” Louis says, a bit empty.

Zayn fumbles for his wrist in the dark, stops himself, “I’m serious Louis, it’s not you. I’m a lot confused right now.”

“Well,” Louis breathes out through his nose loudly, “That much was obvious.”

“Hey,” Zayn leans up on his elbow to look down at Louis, mindful not to crowd or to touch when Louis is feeling unsteady. “When we were wrestling, my issue had nothing to do with you. And when you told me that, on the bridge; that was something I needed to hear.”

“Great,” Louis turns his head away, “Didn’t have anything to do with me while you were wrestling with me. Lovely. Wonderful for the old ego.”

“Louis,” Zayn says, firmly.

Slowly, Louis’s body relaxes into the bed, head still turned away. Zayn watches him swallow hard. Like a marionette, he turns to face the ceiling gradually, unsteady like his strings are off-lengths. He nods a tiny bit.

Zayn gives a small nod back and eases down to lay on his back, carefully not touching Louis. Pushing off a few t-shirts, Zayn stretches out against the bed.

It’s always like being in a child’s dream of an adult’s room, Louis’ room. Zayn lets the familiar action figures, the messy everything but with blazers and suspenders and watches on the dresser, the bright lego fan and analog alarm that may actually be from Louis’ childhood, lull him to relaxing.

Smells a bit rank with weed, though. Might not quite be in that childhood imagination.

“Are you gonna talk to Niall?”

Zayn closes his eyes.

“Zayn?”

_Don’t ask me this. Please._

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what to talk to him about, okay.” Zayn doesn’t even know what to talk to himself about these days.

“’Well,” Louis says tartly, “You could just say whatever you feel.”

Zayn smiles weakly and tries to focus his eyes on the miniature Iron Man on the dresser. “I’m trying to invest in a little more thinking before dumping verbal garbage on people. Seeing how it hasn’t really gone so well these past few weeks.”

“Mm,” Louis shifts restlessly on the bed, “Fine. But if he asks, I’m not hiding anything.”

Zayn starts upwards, “Why would he ask?”

Louis just crosses his arms.

“Louis, please, why would he ask? Does he know?” _If Niall knows_ , Zayn thinks, _he should tell me so I fucking know already._

“Know what? You just said,” Louis kicks the bed, “that you don’t even know. All I know is there’s something to know, you know?”

“Stop saying know.”

“No.”

Zayn chuckles a bit, but pulls gently at Louis’ arm. His stomach is hurting again. “Please.”

“He doesn’t, okay? I’m just saying, Niall isn’t ignorant or blind. He knows people,” Louis pauses, “He knows you.”

Zayn tilts into Louis’ side, “Yeah. And so do you, okay?”

Louis’ silence is loud.

“I’m serious. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re both just fuckheads and I’m a little all over the place right now. We don’t do angry rough-housing well, anyways.” Zayn laughs a bit, nose against Louis’ soft bicep. He can just make out the shape of the stag in the dark. The heart cracked with a line of music.

“No,” Louis says quietly, “we don’t.”

Zayn leans his forehead against him, and stays like that for a long time.

A tension builds in the bottom of his stomach, though. He can’t – he can’t not know.

“Are you really okay with it?” he asks, too low.

“Zayn,” Louis rubs his hand over his face and the tension spikes, “I just want you both to be happy. Like really, disgustingly, horrifically happy.”

Zayn breathes out slowly and feels his spine stretch with it. “Yeah?” he has to ask.

“Yeah, Z. I wanna walk past you guyses and just gag,” Louis knocks his head gently against Zayn’s, “Pretty enough image?”

Zayn bites at his tongue, rolling the texture.

Louis makes a cutting sound. “Honest. I knew everyone was all poly in some form when I joined up, remember.”

And Zayn does.

That night at Paul’s, Harry just back from zir first time off in Cali. Liam a snowstorm, going for it in that tiny magenta miniskirt. Harry wanting to scene in public, soft like spring and needing to be under both of them, desperate like the last of fall. Niall like their cornerstone of summer.

They were a bit obvious.

But, Harry’s right, that doesn’t really say anything about the specifics of it all. Doesn’t say what they all are or might be.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, though. There’s time for that later. Zayn’s got enough to sort through right now. ”But you’ll let me know – “ He takes a deep breath and pulls back to see Louis, “you’ll let me know if anything…?”

Louis blinks at him in the dark, before reaching out two fingers to tap at Zayn’s chin, “I’ll let you know, love.”

“Okay.”

They stay awake for a while, not talking, but lingering, holding hands, touching scars and freckles and soft patches of tucked away skin, trying to learn a different type of intimacy that Zayn hadn’t realized they’d overlooked lately, or maybe at all. And he’s sad by it. He wants this too, he thinks. Maybe this is something he could want, with Louis, if Louis is okay with him wanting it with Niall.

Carefully, he watches Louis for what’s okay and what’s not. Louis watches him back, doesn’t let them get carried away, or Zayn go too deep into his head.

They fall asleep, just their hands touching, on their separate sides, but Zayn has rarely felt closer to someone.

In the morning, Louis is taciturn, but Zayn was prepared for that. Louis has to pretend to hate the world so he can deal with how much he loves the world.

Zayn passes him the salt at breakfast and doesn’t blink when Louis hisses, “Thank you,” like _fuck off_.

Liam is puttering around them doing little fix-its with the sink and the cabinet handle, Harry’s still at zir sleepover and Niall’s on the phone talking about core requirements and upper elective equivalencies. Zayn doesn’t envy any of them.

He eats a turkey-bacon toast sandwich with relish and reads a bit of _The Life of Pi_ for fun. And to ignore the mounting pile of exam prep he’s supposed to be doing. He’s really an exemplary graduate student.

The flesh eating metaphor of a floating island is halfway through having a monkey lunch, Zayn’s toes curling in an unconscious _ew_ when someone taps the back of his head. Blinking himself out, he looks up and shifts around.

Harry’s back, bright in peach jeans and a soft green lipstick.

He smiles, “Hey. You look pretty.”

Harry does a dorky wiggle-dance and sticks zir tongue out at him in a smile.

Zayn laughs and shakes his head.

“Do you wanna,” Harry asks, softly, “Try on the lipstick or anything?”

A spring of panic unloads itself into Zayn’s spine.

“Uhm,” he says, trying not to show it.

Harry reads him easily, jolts and comes over right away to rub at his shoulders, “Shhh, shh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I won’t ask out of the blue like that again okay, I’m sorry.”

Zayn nods a few times, controlling his breathing by tracing the lines of the cover art over and over again.

Harry lets him go to head back to the counter, to busy zirself with picking an apple, washing it, noisily counting out the letters while turning the stem. Zayn watches it, like always, thinking it’s admirable and silly of Harry to try and get to ‘Z’.

He smiles a bit and gets up out of the chair to stretch his back out from the tension.

A good lie in might be nice, right about now. Where he can go and decompress and try and come to terms with the fact that Harry leaves tomorrow and still has to go back to Cali a few more times this semester. That there’s all this floating around him and he’s somehow gotta balance it because mid-terms are next week. Because school hates him.

His smile curls wry, resigned.

“Wanna head to bed?” He asks, quietly.

Harry stills, mid-bite into the apple with juice dripping down zir hand. It’s gonna leave a mess everywhere but Zayn’s a witness, not the cleanup crew. Ze looks surprised. Zayn thinks it over for a second, before - _ah_.

“Just,” Zayn waves a hand, “for laying.”

He’s not, not ready for anything more right now. His stomach still feels like jello at the thought of whatever it was rising up again.

“Yes,” Harry says, “please.”

They toddle in and Harry nearly pinwheels and takes out the bedside Green Lantern lamp and also three of zir new ocean seaweed candles. Zayn puts one hand down on the wobbling table and one hand to zir hip. He pushes Harry towards the bed.

He snorts. “Elegant, babe.”

“I _am_ elegant,” Harry fusses.

“Yes, Harry.”

Harry _hmphs_.

His pillow is soft and beautiful.

He snuggles close, letting Harry curl into the little spoon haphazardly, their legs tangled together. It stretches his muscles nicely. He hums into it.

Harry hums back. “Y’okay?”

“Mhm, just. Think I have to get a handle on all of it, this,” he rubs his chin over Harry’s hair, ignores the squawk of protest, “b’fore you leave, yunno.”

Harry stills.

“Wish I could stay,” ze says quietly.

“Me too,” Zayn sighs, “But.”

“But.”

Harry twists zir arm loose to scratch at zir back. Nuzzling into the pillow a bit more, Zayn chews at his lip.

“It’s just,” he says, watching Harry’s face twist and giggling a bit, “it’s just a lot, you know.”

“You been thinking about it?”

“Yeah, bit. Feels, like okay to think about it now, you know.”

“Mm,” Harry moans a bit, scratching loudly.

“But,” Zayn reaches out to scratch at Harry’s shoulders, higher up than even zir yoga-limbs can reach.

Harry arches happily, mumbling thanks.

Eventually, ze puddles back down on his chest. “But?” ze prompts, at a whisper.

“But,” Zayn says, “I’ve got mid-terms and it’s like, I haven’t been studying at all because, you know.”

“This.” Harry nods.

“Right. So.”

“Sooo, what do you wanna do?”

“I can’t – “ He doesn’t know. More than ever, he doesn’t have time to know. “I’ve got exam week this week, Haz. I _have_ to study. I’ve got like a 100 question multiple choice just for Palaima’s course.”

Harry winces.

“What, no advice?”

“I would probably panic and throw up, honestly,” Harry says and stretches zir hand up at the ceiling.

Zayn has to laugh a bit, “Probably not the best thing, though.”

“Not really.”

Mm.

Zayn digs his teeth into his lip. Harry’s already done so much. He knows this past week has been hard on zir too. Emotional support is still consuming, even if it’s not always physical. Ze’s been so careful with him.

“Okay. Alright.”

“Alright?” Harry lowers zir hand to the pillow to look at Zayn.

“Not really but I’m not gonna ask you about it again, because it makes you stressed.” He rubs the side of his finger over zir thigh tat, the Escher spiral shell he’s always found gorgeous.

“Oh,” Harry says, like ze’s surprised that Zayn remembers the times before Harry got to portfolio work, the endless cycles of anxiety and malaise that went along with it all for zir. “Thank you.”

“Course babe,” Zayn lets Harry pull him close and bite at his shoulder a bit.

He rubs back in random patterns until ze’s drifted off a bit, still mouthing at the fabric of Zayn’s shirt in that oral comfort kind of way ze always does. It’s just a tiny slip into subspace, just a low level acknowledgement from Harry that ze feels well taken care of and safe with him. He kisses the side of zir temple firmly.

Harry makes him want to live up to that trust.

He texts Shahid one handed, staying wrapped around Harry.

_wat 2 do when I’m a fuck up w 4 exams nxt week_

He piddles around as he waits for a response, wrinkling his nose at facebook.

Shahid texts back an hour later and Zayn belatedly tries to remember if he’s travelling this week or not. Oops.

 _Do the exams. duh_ , he’s sent.

Yeah, Zayn agrees but, _school shouldnt get n the way of real life._ This isn’t like a passing issue he can not deal with.

_this si all part of real life dude. School and the other shit_

Zayn stares at it for a minute.

_All of it zayn. focus on the exams cuz everythng else waits_

_Shit still be shit next week lmfao_

Zayn laughs a little bit.

That’s true, it probably fucking will be.

He thinks about it for a second. Can he just put everything to the back of his mind for a week or three? Can he wait until Haz gets back to solve everything? Harry’s finals are mid-November, and then ze is back for good. That’s not that far.

Harry shifts in his arms and he runs a hand down the back of zir arm. “S’okay, love.”

His phone blinks.

_hate it when im right dontcha_

_ha_ , Zayn sends, _nah man. Hate it when u win at poker tho_

_$214 woooo better look out fckers_

_bite me_ , Zayn sends, grinning, then, _thanks bro, that was good_

_yeah dude anything_

Which is about as emotional as Shahid gets over text, but Zayn appreciates it all, nonetheless. He never quite realized how much he would value people who were outside his bubble until he got close with Harry and the boys.

Helps to have someone who’s not invested in the rest of them, like.

He texts Ant to ask the same question briefly, but he already knows that he’s gonna go ahead with it. The tendency to just go ahead with his first solid idea because it supports his footing is a little too familiar to him.

He sleeps better that night, than he has been, like giving himself permission to freak out at some point later frees up his mind for the now.

Niall looks weary at breakfast.

Zayn looks at him, and at the sad curl of everyone’s spines and puts aside his own issues for a moment to go rub his shoulder, “You okay, bub?”

“Yeah,” Niall sighs, holding Harry’s hand tight in one hand and his coffee mug in the other, “There’s just a fire in Bastrop again.”

“Jeeze,” Zayn breathes and leans his head on Niall’s. That’s the second time in just as many years. And they’re still recovering from the first. “Everyone okay?” Meaning Bressie and Eoghan and Laura and the reason that Bastrop being an hour out still means danger close to home.

“Yeah, few injuries due to like trees and stuff but. Mostly just property damage.” Niall takes a deep breath, “Brez’s station got deployed.”

“Ah, that’s rough,” Zayn rubs at Niall’s back. Liam’s hand joins his.

“Cae’s okay though, right?” Liam asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I just get.”

 _Scared_.

And they all get worried when Niall gets scared.

Zayn looks over to see Louis making hot chocolate and Harry rubbing a slow pattern up and down Niall’s arm. They’ll try and stay close today. Closing ranks like they can protect Niall from the realities of his queerplatonic partner’s and caers romantic partners’ jobs.

They have chili, for Niall and for lunch.

After, they all curl up on the couch and spill over onto the floor and let Niall pick things like _Father Ted_ and _Are You Being Served?_ to watch. For hours, with no break.

They really love him.

Zayn’s tummy does a funny swoop.

Around four, Harry tugs on Zayn’s sleeve and pulls him out of the pile to say goodbye at the front door.

“Taylor’s coming in a minute,” ze whispers, “I gotta –“

“I know,” Zayn says and kisses zir.

He doesn’t cry, but he does go wash his face in the bathroom sink before he can join the rest of them back in the living room.

Harry’s gone.

For the next few days Zayn struggles to hold on to anything but a bad mood. He takes to curling up in random classrooms at odd hours, trying to stay away from distraction and stay in the worlds of monsters that are civil and humans that are horrifying.

Avril keeps him company. Blaring out _it don’t do me any good, it’s just a waste of time, what use is it to you, what’s on my mind_. He sings along on the chorus, feels properly fussy.

Zayn pops his pen on the page absently and thinks _Let Go_ was a musical triumph and no one could blame him. He does, however, jerk for the pause button on his headphones when Liam reaches over him that Thursday.

Liam blinks and then breaks into laughter, “Everything alright, there?”

“ _Yes_ , Liam,” Zayn stresses.

Liam laughs a bit more and reaches back for the wasabi peas tucked into Zayn’s elbow. Zayn frowns and Liam pauses and taps at his forearm.

“Unless,” Liam drawls, “You don’t want dinner.”

Zayn scrunches up his face, moody. Then moves his arm so Liam can grab them.

“Mhmmm,” Liam’s voice trails back as he leaves the room.

Zayn sticks his tongue out at him.

Dinner is fun, if a little weird, Liam and him circling around each other and leaving spaces like they’re waiting for four other people to come in and fill them. They don’t often do things just on their own for so long, Zayn realizes.

He compliments the noodles, asks after Liam’s work schedule.

He’s still listening to Avril, later, in between finishing his rhetoric final and resigning himself to death over his lit final. Honestly three essays in two hours has got to be fucking illegal.

His phone blinks beside him. He shoves aside the notes to check it. School can suck a lemon, honestly.

Niall’s texted, _know ur in school hell but me n lou are gone 4 the week jus wanted to let u kno cuz calendar isn’t sending out updates. Hav to leave early cuz lou exam reschedule_ , followed by a series of annoyed emoticons.

 _Where??_ Zayn sends back, telling himself it’s rude to feel glad about the potential for a bit of distance.

 _If we’re lucky ! space !!_ comes back with almost every star or space emoji and then the rocket ship 12 times.

Jeeze. Zayn laughs. Niall is such a dork.

_Houston texas then_

_Houston !!!!!!_

Zayn plays with his phone case for a second, tracing over the Marvel lettering. It must be Louis and Niall’s 6th month, then. They’ve been talking about going on the trip almost as long as they’ve been holding hands. Niall has an actual friend who manages the aircraft hangar and Louis knows someone in the robotics department, so the tour is massive, once-in-a-lifetime.

Cute.

Dorky, but cute.

 _Buy me the moon_ , he sends back.

_Haha ill have louis wrangle it down for ya, yeahh ?_

And Zayn presses his phone to his face and thinks Louis would, though. _Louis would do anything for you, Niall. And you would never ask him for something he couldn’t do._

Zayn turns Avril a little higher in his ears, so it feels like a hammer against his head. Fitting.

He buries himself in notes and study guides and doesn’t answer back.

A few days and several brutal, resigned exams later, he finds himself sad for the distance after all. Him and Liam are subdued, fairly tiptoeing around the house as they half-heartedly have ramen for lunch and soup for dinner.

“House didn’t seem this big when we first got it, right?” Liam asks, as they share the Sunday comics.

“Didn’t seem like it,” Zayn leans his head into his palm.

Liam makes a soft sad sound and Zayn pulls him in to tuck under his chin. He rubs his hands soothingly along Liam’s sides, lingers over the lovely pudge and soft sweatshirt. His neck just invites kisses.

“Wanna go out tonight?” Zayn kisses just under his ear. “Could go to see something, go to Paul’s, have a round or two. Walk the river, maybs.” Liam always loves that. Goes on about how romantic it is.

Liam freezes a bit, “I –“ he pulls in a breath Zayn can feel, “have to study.”

Zayn frowns “Can I help?” He rubs his hand over the fuzzy back of Liam’s head, twirls his fingers in the curly ends of his mohawk.

“Iunno,” Liam mumbles.

“C’mon, let’s try,” Zayn shuffles them off to get Liam’s books and then to the living room. Keeping his hands on Liam’s hips and swaying a bit makes him giggly and makes Zayn smile into the back of Liam’s neck.

It turns out he can’t help, but they call Jade and put her on speaker and she can.

Liam and Harry have a pilates date at 6 and Zayn convinces him to go out after, even wrangles a blush with a mention of walking the river. Liam trounces off to the shower, looking considerably brighter and Zayn pats him and Harry on the back for a job well done. He calls zir while he’s getting ready.

“So,” Harry says, around a mouthful of zir after-work out power bar. “You’re going out.”

“Mhm,” Zayn digs for his glow-in-the-dark skull earring in their jewelry box.

“So!” Harry says louder.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Going out, like a date?”

Zayn’s hand freezes over one of Harry’s lockets. “What?”

“Like is this,” Harry chews for a second, “A _Date_?”

What. No.

“Liam and I go out all the time.”

“Right.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow and goes back to sorting through the box. Liam and him do go out all the time. It’s just stuff they do, not planned like this or anything, usually. And it’s not usually on their own, but what difference do those make.

“- just want you to be careful, Zayn,” Harry is saying.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, finally finding the earring under the hinge of the box, “Yesss.”

“Yes, what?”

“Oh, uh, yes I am,” Zayn juggles the phone to slip in the earring. “Totally careful.”

Harry makes a strange sucking noise.

“Gonna make your lip bleed,” Zayn says absently.

“Shut up,” Harry says, pleasantly. Then more seriously, “Lemme know how it goes okay.”

“Yeah, course babe.” They always do a day debrief.

The night is fun.

They go to see some cheap thriller and Liam and him holds hands and they go to dinner and Liam flushes into Zayn’s shoulder when he raises their hands to kiss Liam’s knuckles. They share dessert and then share a shot or 12 at Paul’s and then share an uber back to the house and it’s nice. It’s nice, the two of them. “We should do this more,” Zayn mumbles to the back of Liam’s neck.

Liam shivers a bit and then strangely, flushes even more, wobbles a little when Zayn sends him off to bed with just a kiss.

“Thank you for this, Zaynie,” Liam whispers into his neck.

Zayn waves him off and goes to try and find a bottle of water as big as his head.

“Liam is no longer sad,” Zayn proudly declares to Harry, tipsy and struggling to get off his socks.

“Uhuh,” Harry says, then, “Did you just hit your head – _Zayn_.”

“Ughhhh,” Zayn mumbles back, curling into his pillow.

He falls asleep to Harry scoffing at him.

Wednesday, Zayn is over at Shahid’s with some of the other guys. Two pipes in and he’s focusing his thoughts on the shape of Niall’s jaw, the soft corner tucked behind it that he thinks would feel incredibly soft against his lips.

He thinks that maybe, the difference between the touchy-feely ease of all of them now, and the want curling like a science experiment in his stomach, is that he wants to linger.

He wants to spend time with Niall and Niall’s body and his smile and his quiet intimate voice that he only ever gets with Louis or Bressie. He wants that. He doesn’t know _where_ the line between the now and the want is, or if it’s more of a vague implied line, but he wants it.

Naturally, like he’s hearing Zayn’s thoughts hundreds of miles away, his phone buzzes with a snap from Niall.

Zayn holds his breath for a moment and then lets the smoke ease out, pulling sharp at his chest. He hands the pipe off to Abe and takes himself and his phone out to the balcony to listen.

It’s perfectly framed, like all of Niall’s media are, Niall’s arm stretched and precise.

Him and Louis are standing in front of some circular thing that reminds Zayn of a hamster ball, but in theory, should be more important than that. They’re both in blue and white, like they’ve dressed themed for the trip. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Niall’s got on a cap reading _I Need My Space_ with the NASA logo imprint. Zayn shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

Another snap pops up. A video this time. They’re in the same spot and as one, they shout “Houston, we are a gooooo!”

Louis does his ridiculous tongue face and Niall copies it.

Both of them shout wordlessly and then Niall pulls down the phone like he’s shut off the video. It tilts to show their heads and a vast white ceiling.

Louis laughs like a scoff and then he’s flicking at Niall’s hat. “You nerd,” he says, like _sweetheart._

“You love me,” Niall says, unbothered. The edge of his grin that Zayn can see, is so wide, it looks like it hurts.

Louis flushes in his neck, hard and fast and turns away.

The video cuts out.

Zayn presses his fingers to his lips and feels his mind blank for a few minutes.

That’s what he wants.

It doesn’t matter what that line is. It doesn’t matter what the line of friend intimacy and romantic intimacy is, because he’s already gone over it in his heart. Whatever is big and red in his chest has already burst over whatever seams he'd thought were well sown.

That’s what he’s been crossing over into with Niall.

The confusion is just displacement, the sense that he’s not on the same page as his hands, running over Niall’s soft, sensitive ears, trying to pull their lives closer, differently.

Zayn _loves_ him.

It’s a quiet sort of realization.

Zayn stays on the balcony and counts the fireflies. They’re finally starting to leave with the late seasonal patches of cold and rain. The river is calm and heavy. Tinged with the yellow of the streetlights and the lingering purple of a heavy sunset, the sky feels vast and mighty, over the familiar glass-metal skyline.

Zayn doesn’t think he won’t rail at himself about it later, but for now the weed pulls him down, makes it fact instead of fear. For now, he’s probably in love with Niall Horan and Austin is beginning to turn gold.

He drinks a bottle of water and lingers.

The next few days are quiet, and Zayn picks at himself about it like he knew he would.

“Do you think I want too much?” Zayn asks his mom, in the middle of their Saturday harissa lesson.

“No,” She says, immediately, firm. “You have big dreams and the heart to reach them.”

Zayn leans his hip against the counter and chops sadly, “You read that off a hallmark?”

“Read it off you, dear,” Trisha says, gently.

Zayn’s breath catches for a minute.

“Now, how do the chilis look?”

Zayn swallows down his _thank you_ and turns it into a heavy _love you_ when they hang up.

Harry calls him an idiot on their call that night, when he tells zir. But, it’s in the middle of zir laughing and explaining yoga steps, so Zayn doesn’t take it too hard.

He dreams that night about Harry in a wedding shop, trying on a pumpkin that’s too small.

“We need a wand, Zayn!” Ze keeps saying, pulling at the pumpkin.

Zayn keeps looking in shoeboxes for the wand.

The scene shifts to Harry wandering naked in a pumpkin patch, trying to find just the one. But it’s raining and everything is blurry. Zayn reaches out to catch zir when ze slips on mud and Zayn ends up catching a puddle deeper than the sea, his hands blurry and strangely webbed through the foamy waves.

The puddle shivers around his fingers, plays music in an echoey minor.

Harry pops up in a pumpkin hat. “Oh good, you’ve got him.”

Harry kisses the pond as a tree pronounces them all, pumpkin and puddle and plant.

Zayn looks down to see his hands turning into water lilies of orange and blue. It’s surprisingly unscary.

He wakes up and stares at his ceiling for a while.

Harry and him have talked about an outdoor autumn wedding. They’ve talked about the spots of bold color Harry wants and the way Zayn is willing, post a quiet civil ceremony, but it’s always in that sloshy way when drunk and mildly high. Neither of them have remotely proposed.

He dithers for a second, and then pulls his phone off the bedside.

_pls don’t wear a pumpkin to our wedding as a statement, you can have the orange as an accent color_

He’s at the kitchen table, grading his third essay of the day by the time Harry texts back.

 _Excuse you._ and _One of my dresses is copper mellow and my suit has golden rod._ and then _you’re marrying class, thank you._

Zayn grins into his shoulder, giddy. And then reads it over again, replies _one of?_

_A person needs zir dresses, Zayn._

_i want butterbeer_ Zayn says, because compromise is the art of a relationship.

There’s a pause long enough that Zayn manages two more pages of terrible semicolon use.

Then, _so will niall xx._

Zayn’s stomach swoops like a vertical fall. He thinks of blue and water and falling softly.

He sends back two hearts, one orange, one blue.

Louis and Niall are back the next day, looking like a walking ad for a NASA gift shop.

“Amazing,” Zayn says, laying upside down on the couch.

“Sleep. Bed,” Louis says, looking frazzled as he walks straight past the living room and into his bedroom. The door claps shut.

Zayn laughs. “He okay?” he asks Niall.

“Yeah,” Niall laughs back, putting down his keys and reaching to hang up his new jacket. A space station letterman. Ladies and gentlepeople, Niall Horan. “Just stressed. Hit traffic coming out of Houston bad.”

“Yikes.”

“Yup.”

“You like my shoes though?” Niall asks, cheeky and striking a pose.

Zayn pulls himself up and over the couch back to look.

Niall has on keds with purple-pink galaxies on them, bright splotches of stars everywhere. Shaking his head, Zayn says, “Incredible, Nialler.”

Niall giggles and moves his feet a bit, looking down at them happily.

Zayn leans his head on the back of the couch and feels himself smile softly.

They don’t go out that night, but they do the next day, after Louis and Niall have handed out gifts and shrugged shoulders about it.

Zayn smiles as he unwraps the moon pin. It’s good quality, the backing of it firm and Zayn knows it’s something that can go on his jacket.

He smiles up at Louis. Louis scuffs his foot on the floor.

“Niall’s idea?”

Louis fiddles with the frame of Liam and Loki’s picture on the wall. “Both. Of us.”

Zayn rubs his thumb over the smooth edge of it, the rough, geologically accurate bumps of the face. “Thank you, both.”

Louis jerks his head in a nod.

Zayn watches Louis’ face for signs that he shouldn’t, as he wraps him close, but Louis just closes his eyes and decompresses into him. His shoulder blades feel small under Zayn’s hand. He lets Louis sway them for a moment.

Then, Liam pops up beside them, with a brief, “Boo!”

Louis reaches out without looking and pinches his nipple.

“Ow, fuck.” Liam grabs at Louis’ hand.

There’s a shaking to Louis’ shoulders. Giggling too, Zayn presses his nose to Louis’ collar. Louis’ cheek presses against his for a moment before he pulls away.

Zayn lets him go, looking up as Louis pulls Liam in, to bite down on his neck. Nice and harsh. Zayn almost whistles.

“Oh, god,” Liam whimpers.

Zayn grins and leans forward just a second to run his hand down the wicked curve of Louis’ spine.

Louis groans and Liam follows a beat later.

“Zayn,” Liam croaks.

There’s some kind of strange tension in the air between them, something sweeter and sharper on his tongue than usual. A difference in something.

“Mmmm,” Zayn hums, as he taps once more at Louis’ waistline and goes to get his jacket. It’s not quite cold enough for leather yet, but fashion is about more than weather.

They go to the other side of the river, some place Niall’s been raving about on Yelp apparently.

“Only in Austin,” Zayn says as they walk in, “Would a modernist brunch café be next to a low key burger stand disguised as a building.”

Niall throws back his head and laughs.

Zayn lets his tummy swoop and doesn’t try to catch his balance.

The next night, Liam and Zayn are commiserating about exam scores and Louis takes action by making them commentate the entirety of Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

It’s nice to have Niall and Louis back.

Zayn goes to sleep smiling.

He wakes up feeling antsy, his phone reminding him just 7 days until Harry comes home.

They’ve been pathetic together all week, Zayn sending morning pictures of the rumpled bed with an increasingly sad emoji and Harry sending back pictures of the sun filtering around the nightmare traffic of zir morning commute with a running countdown.

He complains about the day, messing with Liam’s mac and cheese so it’s more lemon than butter and turns Louis’ hair into an icing tipped mess until both of them exile him to the living room.

“One more week till ze’s home, Zayn,” Louis shouts, “Chill out.”

Niall comes in then, looking bubbly and wind buffeted and Zayn waves a little.

“Hey.”

Waving back, “Heya,” Niall drops his keys and pulls off his shoes carefully. He edges into the living room and Zayn watches him from his perch on the couch, thinking that Niall might’ve actually bought out the entire space center shop, if he even has rocket socks.

Then again, _Niall_. So, maybe he already had them.

Louis launches out of the kitchen, on the phone, muttering, “Well, if Tonya is eating the glue right now, why aren’t you stopping her, Alfonso?”

Niall and Zayn laugh. Louis throws Zayn the finger, kisses Niall off-centered as he’s tugging on his shoes.

“No, I’m on my way, don’t bother. Honestly,” Louis swings open the front door and then pivots around to point a finger at Zayn. “One fucking week, Zayn. Calm your pretty tits.” He skips out the door, “No Alfonso, not you, though yours are quiiiite lovely –“

Niall cackles as soon as the door shuts.

Zayn huffs and looks down at his phone. No messages from Harry. Ze’s wrapping up some meetings today. Big things with big people. Zayn’s proud but he’s also fussy.

“How you and Haz, by the way?” Niall asks. Zayn looks up to see him fidgeting with his own phone, “Ze hasn’t been very talkative lately. Which, _Harry_ , so. Weird.”

Zayn smiles a bit. “Yeah, just been having some talks. Trying to figure out what we wanna do. What I wanna do.”

“About?”

Zayn looks at the shape of Niall’s jaw, the soft space behind it where his blue-blonde hair has grown out long enough to curl a little bit. He bites his lip. “Everything.”

“Well,” Niall leans on the back of the couch, “There's things that you do and there's things that you do, Zayn.”

“Wow. That’s amazing. Thank you.” Zayn resists the urge to sigh dramatically and settles for draping back across the couch bonelessly, emphasizing his pitiableness.

Niall still doesn’t comfort him. “I’m serious Zayn.” Ragged, bitten nails dig into his chin as Niall drags Zayn’s face back towards him. “And if you’re serious, then you know.”

Zayn tucks his chin in to get Niall’s hands to cup instead of grate. “You know I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I do, so what’s up Mr. O’Malikat?” Niall scritches his dedicated 5-o’clock shadow.

Zayn smiles up at Niall’s scrunched up face, hums a few notes of _Ev’rybody Wants to Be a Cat_.  Niall’s face smooths out to giggle and hum the next line back at him. They dissolve into giggles for a moment, and then a slow wave of silence rolls over.

“Harry’s –” Zayn says eventually, he can’t quite get out _I wanna ask zir to marry me_ _like, for real_ but, “Harry could be. _It_.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something building between them. A displaced sort of absence Zayn can’t quite put his finger on, that makes Niall’s face go too bright and his fingers go a little shaky.

“But you want that.”

“Yeah.” Of course. It’s just – Where does that leave everything else he wants.

Where does that leave _so will niall xx._

Niall looks at him like he hears the conditional. “But?”

“Iunno, Ni,” Zayn says, watching the line of Niall’s eyebrow, the way the dark of his natural hair makes his blue eyes pop unbelievably.

“Dunno what?”

“What else,” Zayn says slowly, eyes on the sprinkle of freckles on Niall’s temple, “I might want.”

Niall cocks an eyebrow.

Zayn clears his throat, feeling the strange pull of the air between them still.

“So, what? You just want a free range to do what you might want?” Niall says, a little cold. “No weighty ties, labels, whatever?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Nialler. You know I didn’t mean that.”

He pokes a finger at Niall’s stomach where he’s standing over Zayn’s couch slump.

Niall catches his finger in his hand. Something silly rolls in Zayn’s chest. _Don’t. It’s a normal touch_ , he reminds himself. _It’s no big deal._

“Then what?” Niall asks.

 _You_ , Zayn thinks. _Would you want me?_

He closes his eyes against the thought.

No, he can’t.

Niall and Louis. Niall and Louis.

Zayn and Harry. Zayn and Harry.

Is he just being greedy?

 _Doesn’t everyone deserve to be a little greedy?_ He argues with himself. _Especially for Niall._

Everyone deserves a Niall.

He’s so tired.

There’s a gentle pressure against his cheek and a soft, close sigh that ruffles his hair. A quiet murmur blurs across his hearing.

“. . .wish you would . . . Harry and me –“

Zayn tries to hold onto it, but he’s already drifting away. The last thing he feels before the soft darkness swallows him is his hand being gently placed on his stomach.

He dreams of eating falling stars like pop rocks of beauty on his tongue. One after another of sweet, impossible possibility.

The world is vast and bright.

Zayn walks with his arms wide and his tongue out.

There are bridges of words like woven kaleidoscopes of metaphors and rains of verbs swirling, colliding, gathering, building in the gutters of the streets.

Something about the intricate pinkblue of them all is familiar, is a promise.

Zayn wakes up to Harry humming _Catch a Falling Star_. His head is in zir lap and the room has gone sharp and cold. Nighttime, and the sounds in the house echo distantly.

“Were you humming that the whole time?” Zayn asks, voice scratchy.

“Nope. Just started,” Harry’s leg bumps up and down and ze scritches at Zayn’s scalp.

“Creepy.”

“Huhm?”

“Dreams.”

“Ah.” Harry fingers smooth over his temples, firmly.

“Hey,” Zayn realizes, “You’re back.”

Harry smiles and kisses his forehead. “I’m back.”

Warmth blooms in Zayn’s chest, “Hi,” he says softly, reaching out to curl a finger in one of Harry’s ringlets. Ze looks so pretty today, even upside down, all piled hair and bright magnolia romper.

“Hi,” Harry whispers back.

Zayn rubs the texture of zir curl in his fingers, “You’re early.”

Harry blushes a little and Zayn presses his lips to zir wrist. He feels the same, is thankful, is so, so grateful.

“Thank you,” he wraps the curl around his finger, “You –“ he breathes deep, lets himself hope, “You staying this time?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, and it is.

They cozy into their bed and lock the door. Cinnamon burns around them, overwhelming and sharp, like Harry under him, beside him, inside him.

He tells Harry, in the kitchen later, about his conversation with Niall.

“’s just weird is all.” Zayn closes his eyes, bites lazily at the splotch of colors across Harry’s back, “Layered.”

Harry hums, shoulder moving happily under Zayn’s teeth. “You ever get the feeling that Niall like knows things, like about the universe?”

“Fuck,” Zayn laughs, “yeah.”

“Scary,” Harry drawls.

“Totally.”

Liam pops up around the corner of the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. Zayn’s eyes flicker over his curly hair, the stretched out sweatshirt that looks like it’s been through a shredder.

“What’s scary,” Liam yawns, “is that you two are making churros at 3 am.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants, Liam,” Harry says loftily.

“Right.”

Zayn giggles.

Harry measures out more flour.

Liam leans against the counter for a bit, asks why they’re baking the dough – “Thought it was deep fried, s’all.” His brow line is squished sweetly.

Zayn presses his thumb to the bottom of his neck. Delight curls down his spine as Liam leans easily to give him room, the way his body lets Zayn in like trust is a reflex.

“Guuuh,” Liam groans.

“- so you can do them in the oven just as well. I would argue,” Harry puts up a finger, “the texture is even better.”

“Not hard to beat what you haven’t had,” Liam nods, drooping against Zayn’s hand.

“Hey,” Harry and Zayn say.

Zayn pinches just a bit at Liam’s neck and Liam giggles, curling in his shoulders.

“Stop, stop,” Liam bats at his hands, “I’m too tired to laugh. Sleep.”

He does kiss them both gently, sleep sickly-sweet breath and all.

They watch Liam toddle off.

Zayn blinks heavily.

“I’m exhausted,” Harry says.

“Same, ugh.”

He and Harry eye each other for a moment.

20 minutes is a _long_ time.

“Think they’ll keep in the fridge?”

Harry curls a grin. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Nice,” Zayn drums on Harry’s shoulder and blinks slowly, sleep battering at him like a ram.

They clean up lazily. At 3 am, there’s only so much you can do, Zayn reckons. They’ll get ribbed but, nothing to do about it.

“Oh well,” Harry giggles into his neck as they stumble back down the hall, clumsily hitting at the lights as they go.

Cinnamon swirls around the corners of their room, almost too sharp under Zayn’s nose as they creak open the door and settle in. He wrinkles his nose and fumbles under the sheets, so the smell balances with their nice herby shared conditioner.

“Maybe,” Harry mumbles, as ze struggles with the blankets, “Maybe Niall already knows.”

“Knows what?” Zayn, mumbles back, swigging water from the bottle on the bedside.

“About. Bout you know.”

Zayn carefully drops the water back down and closes his eyes into the pillow.

“Go to sleep, Haz,” he mumbles.

The sun wakes them up at an ungodly 8AM.

“I hate everything,” Harry snaps into zir pillow.

“Ugh,” Zayn responds.

They manage a shower at about 10 and breakfast at about 11. By 12, everyone is home and the kitchen is loud and friendly in a way that makes the day turn a better shade of yellow.

Niall greets Harry with a delighted, “Harry! You’re baaaaack,” and a hug long enough that Liam finishes brewing a whole pot of coffee.

Zayn’s chest sympathizes with the coffee, feels bubbly and hot just watching them stand there in the kitchen, hugging.

Niall is all over Harry the rest of the day, bouncing, holding zir hands, making Harry laugh doubled over. Harry pulls Niall closer and close until it looks like they’re one four armed prehistoric being, accentuated by the way their laughter has kicked up into strange guffaws.

Zayn watches from his spot on the counter.

“Whatchu thinking, partner?” Louis asks, quietly.

Zayn offers him some gummies.

Niall is asking Harry how come ze’s home early, in between laughing hysterically at whatever Harry is doing with zir legs. “No, no more practicals, just written, like email stuff,” Harry replies, trying to catch zir breath.

Louis takes a red gummy with his eyebrows raised. Habit tugs at Zayn to take it back, but he knows Louis likes them; what’s more, he knows Louis is just testing things.

“Wow, dude,” Louis says, holding the red gummy aloft.

Zayn shrugs.

“Well, I’m just special, aren’t I.”

“Yup,” Zayn agrees.

Louis inhales for long moment and looks put upon. Then, he reaches over. Zayn sticks out his tongue and Louis puts the gummy on it carefully. Chewing, Zayn mumbles a thank you.

“Uhuh,” Louis says, suspiciously.

Zayn pops another red in and says quietly, “I’m thinking,” he chews, “I’m not the only one who wants stuff.”

Louis glances back at Harry and Niall and then to Zayn again. His eyes narrow.

The gummy sticks like taffy in Zayn’s teeth.

“Is that -?” Zayn licks at his teeth. “Does that bother you?”

Louis clenches his jaw, looking at Harry sprawled on top of Niall. Niall is laughing into the curve of zir shoulder as Liam says something about track practice. It feels warm to Zayn, looks like home.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Louis steals a yellow gummy, bites its head off.

“Okay,” Zayn says, mild. “Cause if it did –“

“It doesn’t.”

“But if it did –“

“It. Doesn’t.”

Niall cackles loud enough to echo and Louis bites off two more heads.

“Lou,” Zayn says quietly, turning them so that Zayn’s blocking Louis’ view of the rest of the kitchen. He presses them back into the cabinets. Not trapping, but sometimes Louis needs to know you don’t want him to go anywhere.

“What,” Louis flicks at a bit of dirt on the counter, doesn’t even try to look over Zayn’s shoulders.

“Niall loves you.”

Louis’ throat bobbles hard. 

The sounds of laughter at their backs dies down a bit, receding into the living room.

Twisting the edges of the bag closed, Zayn says, “He loves you. _You_. We would not – are not, gonna do anything, anything at all to jeopardize that. What you two are,” he continues, quieter, watching the side of Louis’ clenched jaw, “Is something beautiful to us. We want to support that. Not take away from it.”

 _And_ , Zayn thinks, _we don’t even know what we want yet anyway_. Can’t usurp with a confused nothing.

Louis eyes close for a second, “Yeah?” he whispers.

“I promise, Lou. Promise.”

“Both,” Louis’ voice cracks, “both of you?”

“We promise,” Zayn aches to touch him, knows to keep back.

Louis nods, shuffles his shoulders like he’s trying to curl away all the rockiness in his bones.

“Maybe,” Zayn says quietly, “You should talk to Harry a bit about it?”

“Should I?” Louis bites out.

Zayn inhales steadily, tells himself not to bite back, “Yes.”

“And why’s that, hm?” His accent is stronger than usual. A little more out of the lines than he usually lets it.

“You know why, Lou. Because it wasn’t me that got you wound up like this.” Zayn twists at the gummy bag, mumbles down, “I don’t know what to say.”

Silence for a moment.

“Fuck,” Louis says, and tosses his head back, clacking it against the cabinets. He crumples with an even louder, “Fuck!”

“Fucking –” Zayn drops the bag to reach out to Louis, his curled groaning.

Louis tilts into him and Zayn lets himself run his hands over Louis’ head gently.

“What the hell, Lou,” he hisses.

“Don’t blame me, it was the cabinet!”

“What the fuck,” Niall says from behind them. Zayn pivots, barely managing to catch Louis as he tries to turn as well and stumbles.

Zayn’s heart lurches. Niall’s in the doorway, eyes wide and worried, unaware of being the focal point of all emotion in the universe.

“It’s fine,” Louis shouts, “Fine, fine, fine.”

Niall stares at them for a moment and then leans his head heavily against the wall, “Ice it, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, a little breathless, “Course, yeah.”

“Okay,” Niall says, and rolls his eyes and leaves. There’s a distant mumble of, “Incredible. _Idiots_.”

Zayn gasps a laugh into Louis’ shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis says.

“Nah man,” Zayn says, easily.

Louis leans his chin into Zayn’s neck.

“Okay,” Louis says, quietly, and it feels like more than just about Zayn, feels like it might be about all of them.

“You’ll talk to Harry?” Zayn asks. He worries.

Louis’ eyelashes brush against the underside of his jaw as his eyes close. “I’ll talk to Harry.”

“Okay,” Zayn says, because thank you feels too self-important.

He lets them go.

Louis takes a deep breath before he waltzes into the living room, all jazz hands and too-showy gestures, “I MAY have a serious injury and need immediate coddling. Get your hands ready for my feet, sweetpeas.”

Zayn laughs as the rest of them shout over one another at Louis. He can just make out Liam’s voice going high, “I’m gonna give a serious injury to your _ego_ , Mr. Orgasms Like A Moose.”

Louis makes a huffy sound not unlike a moose and there’s the sound of something crashing to the floor. Liam, probably.

“Not my pastels,” Harry shouts.

Zayn laughs again. 

Picking up the gummies and trashing the few that sacrificed their lives to the floor, Zayn wanders over to watch.

They’re ridiculous.

He loves them.

The next few days flip through his hands easy like cards. The ease down from exam season relaxes his muscles and having Harry back, _for good_ , Zayn thinks with relish, is like his own personal sunlamp. He’s greedy with Harry, hands in zir hair and on zir thighs and holding zir hand constantly in public, heart thrumming and face flushed with happiness like it’s the kinkiest thing he’s ever done.

Harry indulges, is greedy back.

Ze’s got one hand in the back pocket of his joggers, and one intertwined with his. The store isn’t busy at this hour because it’s a Thursday at 11:20 AM and they’re both smart cookies who plan their shopping when the rest of the world is otherwise occupied.

But that means it’s 11:20 AM on a Thursday, in an HEB in Austin, Texas, and Zayn is standing in the razor aisle thinking of the hair growing back on his legs. He is thinking how he categorically does not want it to.

It’s weird, it’s different, and it makes something harsh tug at the seams of his stomach, but. But he knows he doesn’t want it.

"Is there a difference?"

They’re just razors. He has a shaver for his face, has had for years.

This is not new.

He feels like this is something he should know, should not be clutching Harry’s hand in the middle of HEB over, but the potential of it, the reality of what it’s _for_ seeps into him, turns his bones to jello. No one around them knows, but - but how could they not, when it feels so obvious, so much.

"If it's blue, it's cheaper and yet miraculously works better," Harry says, darkly.

Zayn turns to laugh into Harry's shoulder, the stress in his tummy popping like a small bubble of gas.

"You could just use Liam's or my spares, babe," Harry kisses his temple. "Don't have to make a decision today."

"No?" Relief.

"Naw, just remind me at home?"

"Yeah," Zayn mumbles, presses a kiss to the corner of Harry's jaw. _Thank you._

Harry presses zir dimple against him, sloppily mouths at the side of his mouth. _You're welcome._

They get home as Louis is packing his bag into his car.

Zayn lets Harry juggle the cold stuffs up the porch steps and pauses.

“Off to check on Lottie?”

Louis gives a shrug-nod.

Smiling because there’s little to nothing that Louis is humble about like he is about how good he takes care of his loved ones, Zayn nudges his foot with his own. Louis nudges back, grins a bit.

“Drive safe.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No,” Zayn says, dry.

Louis laughs, tipping his head back.

In the late morning light, he’s picturesque, all high tops and faded graphic tee. The sunglasses perched on his head look in danger of falling. Look like they might be Niall’s.

Zayn shakes his head a bit and wanders inside to help Harry put away the groceries. Louis is braver than Zayn is.

“Yessss,” Niall says from the kitchen, clutching the giant bag of nuts Harry has plonked down.

Zayn would make a comment, but it seems too easy.

“No, no,” Niall says, then, one hand reaching to his mic’d headphones, “Sorry, not you Bres. That sucks,” his voices gets lower and he curls around the bag. “None of you?”

Frowning, Zayn tugs at Harry’s side.

The pickles go on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Harry is reaching for the top.

Zayn tugs at zir harder, “Top.”

“Yes, Zayn, this has a top.”

“I’ll _top_ you,” Zayn threatens.

Harry’s eyes dance, “Oh yes, please.”

Zayn giggles into the curve of Harry’s shoulders.

By the time they’re getting ready for bed, he’s a little breathless for a different reason.

Harry perches on the toilet seat, feet up on the tubside.

“You don’t hafta,” zir voice is soft.

“I want to,” Zayn says, even as his hand shakes and his chest does that weird floaty out-of-body bit he’s come to associate with these weird moments.

Gender moments, Zayn reminds himself.

It’s okay to think, it’s okay to say it.

He breathes in, unsteady.

Harry’s brightly colored fingernails come into view. “Let me, babe?”

“Do you,” Zayn breathes out, “Want to?”

“Yeah,” Harry says easily.

“Okay,” he hands over the razor, Harry’s anyway.

Harry draws the razor down his leg like a brand, like cotton. The way it pulls the shaving cream to leave a clean line feels like a metaphor. It’s _pretty_. Zayn inhales.

“Besides,” Harry murmurs, eyes looking up at Zayn through green tinted lashes. “You looked like an old person, shaking the razor against the kids in your yard.”

“Harry –”

The weighted moment has to rightfully be put aside so Zayn can shove Harry into the water in the tub.

Harry shouts and cackles.

Zayn goes to bed rubbing his legs together, squirmy with a twisted, near nauseating pleasure.

That Saturday, they wake up lazy, lounge around the house, until they end up in the kitchen.

Niall’s making caramel apples for some reason.

Harry’s got zir legs pulled up on the counter, munching on cookies that Taylor made earlier this week. The sketchbook on zir lap is small, but exploding with color, visible even from where Zayn is at the table. Ze looks in the zone, whatever it is. Zayn admires the way that sunlight frames zir for a moment. The way the beam skips across the kitchen to light on Niall’s boots, his very nice wranglers. Niall’s hips are swaying as he stirs the caramel.

Zayn leans his head in his hand to watch. He should probably eat, but sitting here feels more important.

It’s easy and warm.

Liam moves around in the living room. On tidy-up duty this week, and doing it while listening to ANTI very loudly in his ears.

“So,” Niall says loudly. Zayn blinks at him. “Y’all are coming to mine and not anyone else’s, right?” Niall glares at him over the apples.

Zayn raises his eyebrows as his stomach rumbles.

“Your what?”

“Party.”

Right.

“Is it…here?”

“Zayn.” Niall swirls an apple expertly.

“Niall?”

“It’s been on your calendar for like, 7 months.”

7 months. Niall probably knows how many days. Zayn refrains from asking, even though the laughing blush is one of Niall’s best looks.

“I’ll be honest,” Zayn says, stretching his arms a bit, “I have no clue what’s on my calendar.”

Niall sighs and dashes some nuts on the caramel with more force than usual. Harry gives Zayn a look like, _Fix this_.

Zayn gives a look back like, _What the hell_.

“Sure Nialler, course we’ll come to yours,” Zayn says, gently.

Niall places the finished apple on the wax paper and takes a swig of the bottle on the counter. It’s suspiciously red.

“You have no idea what the party is for,” Niall sighs.

“Not an utter clue,” Zayn says, brightly.

Niall laughs and turns back to the apples.

“Today,” he announces, “is Halloween, Zayn.”

Zayn blinks. “Is it?”

“Yeah, it’s almost November. Surprise.” Niall throws him jazz hands, which Harry echoes.

“Temperature feels like September,” Liam grumbles as he shuffles past to the laundry room.

“We love your sweaty self, Liam,” Harry assures from the counter top, muffled around the cookies.

“Huh,” Zayn hums.

It’s not surprising, it just feels like so much has happened in the past few weeks and also like nothing has happened at all. Being on Harry time throws off the rest of his awareness, he guess.

“Whoopsie,” he says to Niall.

Niall rolls his eyes and twirls another caramel apple.

Zayn’s stomach rumbles. He also remembers, vaguely – “Weren’t you talking about someone else’s party a few weeks ago?”

Niall sighs down at the apple. “Cancelled. Laura’s shift got changed at the station and Asami has a portfolio piece due tomorrow. She’s been mixing all week.”

“Ah.” Zayn watches Harry get crumbles all over zir drawing and then look down at it like ze is in pain. He stifles a giggle into his elbow.

“So, does that mean you don’t have a costume?” Niall asks, as he sprinkles nuts.

“Please,” Zayn says, “Have a little faith.”

Niall laughs.

Zayn ducks his head a bit, smiling too large. It feels like his heart could be seen from space. Harry gives him a knowing look and pops another cookie into zir mouth. Zir fingernails are in orange and black. Maybe it ought to have been a sign, but Liam’s have been like that for a week and Harry is constantly shoving warm colors into cool spaces.

Literally, but also metaphorically, like.

Zayn squeezes at Harry’s hip and then Liam’s on the way out of the kitchen. They’re soft and a lovely pudgy as they try and steal snacks from under Niall’s nose.

The sound of Niall telling them off follows Zayn as he wanders into his and Harry’s closet.

He’s not really sure what he’s looking for, but there has to be something. Him and Harry aren’t Louis level pack-rats, but they hold their own. Starting to dig through the back drawers of one of the dressers, he flips on one of his chill mixes and lets Erykah sing him low.

Harry wanders in sometime after Zayn has dug all the way to the box of their scene gear, which has begun to accumulate latex in that way that all latex seems to find other latex.

“When did we get like, four black jumpsuits?” he asks, tilting his head back to see Harry peeking in, curls slopping over the apple in zir hand.

Zayn stares at the mess of caramel for a second before looking back at zir.

Harry shrugs and lifts up zir hair to lick at it for a second.

Zayn giggles.

“One spandex,” Harry says eventually, “Two latex – one crotchless, obviously – “

“Obviously.”

“- One leather.”

Hmm. _Leather._

“Really?” Zayn asks, and digs a bit more through the box, looking for it again.

“Yeah, not like superb but.”

“Decent.”

“Doable.”

“Dashing.”

“Debonair.”

“Devilish.”

“Dom,” Harry smacks a sticky kiss to Zayn’s cheek.

“Yuck,” Zayn says, tugging Harry closer.

When they kiss, it’s sharply sweet, a tingle against Zayn’s tongue that Harry chases with zir teeth. Zayn groans lightly, pulls back just a bit to kiss at Harry’s dimple.

“Need to find a costume and get to work,” Zayn whispers.

“Gotta show everyone up,” Harry whispers back.

Zayn grins. “Well.”

“Mhmmmm.”

He cackles, kisses Harry once more before pulling out the leather jumpsuit.

“Whatchu thinking, Maybelline?”

A tiny sliver of pleasure works its way down Zayn’s spine and he breathes through it, a little shaky. He’s trying to get used to that, to feeling something sharp and _good_ about himself from old things in new ways. Feeling himself – his gender – do a little wave about little things. Harry’s helping, not changing, yet, but. Watching, listening.

It’s still scary.

Zayn rubs a thumb along the crisscrossing lines of the leather, the suit designed for someone with or without a lot of breast.

It’s sorta – It’s a bit like…

“I,” Zayn exhales, “am thinking I could try and be something a little adventurous.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, eyeing him carefully. Watching, listening. “You are an adventure.”

Zayn hides his smile in his shoulder, reminds Harry, “Yeah well, I saw those sequin bags in your bottom drawer, five minutes ago. What are you planning?

“Shhhhhh,” Harry slobbers on him.

Harry helps him with it, lets him wield zir homemade textile paint for the inside of the cape Zayn steals from Liam in return for a kiss and a giggle.

“The fact that you have to steal a cape but you have a special release, fully functioning utility belt is scary,” Harry says, mildly, running an easy line of white down the cross lines of the leather.

“Who doesn’t have a spare X-Men utility belt?” Zayn asks, reasonably.

“Of course, dear,” Harry says, and leans over to stop him from dripping the paint on zir jeans.

The last bit, Harry can’t really help with, so they leave the paint drying with a fan on the backyard rack where Harry’s paintings usually live. He kisses zir cheek, and flounces off with a bit of a bounce in his step.

He texts Perrie as he’s shaving. He has everything but one of the bits.

The razor slides smooth along his jaw, sends strange tingles down his spine like anticipation. He thinks vaguely of his legs, hair starting to grow a little bit over the days, soft and newly prickly, how strange in a different way his same body can be. Shaving them right now is unnecessary but, knowing that he could ask Harry and they could, or he could – He smiles into his shoulder, his reflection’s cheeks red and round.

Perrie texts back a boxed series of _??????not at home._

And then _Did u forget u soggy pringle_

Zayn rolls his eyes _, I know, ur all on tour. But i know the spare is in the squirrel_

_you know, out of context.._

_Perrieeeee_

Zayn can imagine her giggle, probably listing into Jade’s side, cramped together in their tour bus.

_Ya ya, s’fine. But you’re replacing it !!!_

He grins and finishes up shaving.

Harry is back in the kitchen with Niall when he comes out. Keys in hand, he lingers for a moment in the hallway. Harry’s up on the counter again, by where Niall’s doing something in the sink. They’re talking about something quietly, indiscernible over the noise of Liam vacuuming and singing along _to Love On The Brain_. Harry’s hands are clenched around the edge of the counter. Holding back.

It’s not like Harry and Niall never touch.

They touch all the time, they’re a friendly group of friends and – Zayn remembers with a bit of a jolt, doesn’t know how he could have not thought about it in all of this, except that Harry hasn’t been around enough for it to be a thing, but – Harry and Niall even kiss sometimes, have done when they’re feeling particularly good and into the moment. But, it’s never, it’s never been for long or much and Niall always pulls away quick and Harry doesn’t push it.

Watching Harry’s hands tense and release around the counter, thinking of the way Harry whispered, cracked and aching, _“To have him as a possibility,”_ Zayn wonders how that was. He wonders what that was like, in Harry’s heart.

It’s not just Zayn dealing with things.

It’s going to be both of them, going to be all three of them.

Butterflies flutter in Zayn’s stomach.

He wants that so bad.

Wants the space between Harry’s longing lean and Niall’s easy love to be nothing, to be pushed aside by the way Harry’s hand would fit to Niall’s lower back, pushed under his dress shirt. Wants for himself to be able to walk across their worn tile floor and press his hands beside Harry’s, curl his chin over Niall’s neck and kiss the secret, sweet spot under his jaw. 

He wants to have little moments like earlier between the three of them, but more.

He’s always had enough love in him to bridge gaps between people, when Liam and Louis needed someone to circle around, when Ant and Danny needed a temper, when Layan and Malay wanted a grad student to telephone between.

He doesn’t mind being that here, if he needs to.

Wants to, if it’ll put Niall’s hand in theirs.

There could be so much good about their balance.

It flutters along his tummy all the time now, the idea that Niall could be – could _be_.

He’s smiling as he drives to Perrie and the girls’ house, like his nerves have taken hold of his facial muscles.

He pulls up smiling for a different reason.

Their house is cute. The plants are still smiling under their 70 year old neighbor’s green thumb and the wood pastels lie sharp against the dark brick. It’s sweet, and Zayn feels that same shiver of pride like he always does that they’ve come so far and made it so big that they have a tour crew and a headlining show and this little house safe and waiting for them when they get back.

He finds the hide-a-squirrel under the bushes in front and tiptoes his way through the house to the bathroom.

The dye is under the sink, in a huge basket of dyes rivalling a Walgreen’s aisle. Zayn shakes his head. The platinum is almost full, instructions half stuck out of the box. He takes it and locks up quietly.

Flicking Perrie an _I O U_ he drives home. Excitement zings in his fingers, tapping along to _what’s normal anyway_ as he waits behind lights.

“Don’t let them change you, just be who you are,” he sings, softly, feels it even stronger than usually.

It’s a big thing, maybe, and also maybe a small thing, him choosing this as his costume, in front of all of them and their friends circles. Maybe, Zayn reasons, as he pulls back in their drive, it’s only big to him. But in that same way, he reasons, the shaving is a big thing. It means something, Harry’s reassured him of that. Everything he’s ever read about this stuff reassures him of that.

It’s okay to feel what you feel, he reassures himself.

His stomach is still tight.

The house is swirling when he gets back in, Liam and Niall bustling around, shouting things vaguely to each other. It’s barely noon, but they’re acting like hell itself is gonna descend in an hour.

He skirts his way around the chaos into the bathroom.

Pulling on one of Liam’s oversized throw-away shirts from some sporting event, he gets to work. It’s a fun process, Zayn’s always liked the sharpness of the smell, the thrill of changing something so solidly, but not permanently, about yourself. He could get used to this.

The bleach sits, itchy as Zayn hums and waits it out in the bathroom.

Absently, he hopes no one has to use the bathroom. Oops.

When the timer goes, he tips himself into the shower spray carefully. Having near-shoulder length hair is cool in that the application was pretty easy, but the clean-up leaves a lot to be desired. He could do with the neatness of short hair with still the wicked thrum of color.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Zayyyyyn,” Liam’s voice calls, “You’re very stunning already. I need to use the bathroom, please?”

Zayn laughs, washes more bleach out of his hair.

He’s only on the third round. Hair dryers are nice, and his hair takes to dyeing good, but it’s a timed process.

“Two more goes for the toner and dye, Payno!”

Liam whines, scratches against the door pathetically. Zayn flips off the shower and scrubs at his head with the throwaway towel.

It’s not like Liam couldn’t come in anyway, it’s just sorta one of those lines you don’t really cross even with a best friend you’re having sex with. A certain boldness of intimacy.

“Lemme put in the toner and then you have two minutes, okie?”

“Okie,” Liam shuffles, makes some more sad sounds.

Zayn laughs and has to focus not to drip on himself.

When he slides out the door Liam launches himself in. Laughing some more, Zayn leans carefully against the wall.

Niall passes him by holding a giant pumpkin that has Harry written all over it. Literally.

“Yeah?” Zayn asks.

“Shush. Harry said ze would,” Niall tells him primly, then turns to shout at Harry and Zayn’s bedroom, “And you better, you silly, sequined, sloth!”

There’s a grumbled protest from Harry.

Zayn laughs some more.

Niall sticks his tongue out at him. “Love the look by the way. Very bleach.”

“Pft, give me another hour and it’s gonna knock you off your rocket socks, babe,” Zayn winks.

Niall smiles, leans his chin against the pumpkin for a moment, says, “I never doubted it,” softly.

Zayn stomach wiggles happily.

“Well,” he says, breathless.

Liam comes out of the bathroom, then.

“Niallerbee, oh no, here,” he says, leaning to take the pumpkin from Niall. Niall beams at him, pinches his cheek.

“Handy-dandy-Leemo. Thanks, hon. Backyard?”

Liam laughs and turns to the backyard, Niall following, bopping the beat of something on his sturdy back.

“Hey, eat something, you banana squash!” Niall calls back to Zayn.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn says, quiet.

He wanders through finishing the toning and the dye, absently plays around on his phone, gets sucked into Instagram for a while, lets the fumes swirl around him until finally he looks into the mirror and at his hair. The strands are a bit of a mess, scratched from all the bleach today and flopping, but. But, it looks delicate, good. The platinum sharp and bright against the dark of his eyebrows, the darker streaks he left in. It makes his hair look longer, somehow. With a little styling, it’ll be perfect.

7 hours, Zayn thinks. Success rings in his bones.

He finishes up, cleans and sets it all with pomade and spray. Skipping out of the bathroom, he nearly runs headlong into Normani.

“Fuck,” he stumbles to a stop.

She laughs at him, pats his shoulder and continues on outside.

The house is booming. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice all the people coming in, the noise level rising and rising until it tipped to this crescendo like movement rather than audio. He vaguely recognizes almost all the people in makeup and bright colors and fake blood, even if they pass him without acknowledging.

The hair – Zayn realizes.

That’s kinda nice, the anonymity, for a bit at least.

Someone tries to nudge past him, face covered by a Frankenstein mask.

“Oh, sorry,” he shuffles out of the way.

They shut the door.

Zayn rolls his eyes and maneuvers his way through people to peek in his and Harry’s room. Sure enough, there on the dresser is the suit. He closes the door, grinning. When he presses a finger to the fabric, it comes away dry.

Not a shabby job, if he does say so himself. They make a good team.

Now all he has to do is wear it. In front of this many people.

His heart is beating a little fast.

Not like people don’t cosplay all the time as characters not their gender or their ID, Zayn knows. How many cons he’s been to, he definitely knows.

It’s just different, this.

Zayn pulls off his clothes carefully, stands for a moment in just his boxer briefs looking at himself in the mirror. Tattoos ring like splotches around his torso, his arms. Zayn touches his fingers to the red zap for a moment, the kiss, the single spots of color, like small hearts of comfort. Touching himself isn’t bad now, not with all the other stuff going on in him, but it’s weird. Feels disconnected. He looks in the mirror and thinks about what Harry said about falling in love with zirself.

He’s not there yet. Maybe won’t ever be. He’s not even sure who he’s seeing in the mirror – what the reflections are supposed to reverse and make clear.

The hair looks good, though.

It’s strange in a good way, a delighted kind of unfamiliarity.

The streaks of his usual black against the tinted grey is exactly –

“Storm,” Zayn whispers to himself. Ororo like the northern lights, like strength and power and a darkness bright.

The suit is soft under his hands.

It feels right.

Still, he stands for a moment holding onto the door knob with it all on; the suit, the way it sits big against his small chest, the cross of the belt, the hugs of it all, the cape secure.

Just because it feels right doesn’t mean it isn’t scary.

He closes his eyes for a second, says a quiet prayer and turns the knob.

The party is _loud_.

The sound hits him in the chest as soon as he is out the door. There’s some kind of monster mash remix on and the bass rings down the hall, twines around the people Zayn sidesteps on his way down the hall. They’re half-shouting, leaning close into each other. No one Zayn recognizes but that doesn’t mean anything. Niall knows people on Mars.

As he moves, the cape swings against the back of his legs, and he smiles down at it, a little giddy even over the bubbles in his throat against people he does know seeing him like this, knowing him like this.

He runs into someone.

“Fuck.”

He stumbles, nearly trips on the cape, nearly takes out the picture frame on the wall of Loki and a young Liam.

Someone is laughing.

“It’s not a good picture of me, but it’s not that bad, Zayn.”

Zayn looks up, leaning one hand curled around the wall corner for security.

Liam is grinning at him, face bright and crinkled. He’s in Batman Beyond gear because he’s a predictable sort of guy, but he also looks predictably really good. The softness of his belly and his arms looks good with the malleable plastic wrapped around it. His head is always silly-sweet in a cowl.

“Haha, Liam,” Zayn pokes the side of Liam’s costume where he knows it thins. Liam grins, catches his hand, tugs him a little closer.

Liam seems to look at him then, his brown eyes going wide and head tilting. Zayn’s stomach fizzes up.

“Hey,” Liam says. “You’re –”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, short.

“Marvel,” Liam finishes.

Zayn stills.

“Yeah?” he says again, breath feeling caught in his stomach. It’s not like he doesn’t want an acknowledgement but he’d rather maybe, it was something simple and easy. He’d rather everyone acted like this bit of Zayn was just like any other bit.

Liam smiles at him, round and directed, a compass drawn circle.

“Means we have to battle it out for control of this timeline,” Liam nods, rubs his thumb over the smoothness of Zayn’s elbow.

Delight springs into Zayn.

“I’ll win,” Zayn says, wraps a finger around Liam’s chin to shake his head a tiny bit.

Liam dimples for him. “You will.”

“That okay?” Zayn asks, feels like he’s asking if this is okay, maybe if he’s okay. Can’t bring himself to say anything else about it.

“Zayno,” Liam says, running his hands up and over Zayn’s shoulders, flaring out the cape like it’s caught in wind. The sensation swirls against Zayn’s back, makes him feel light. “You look gorgeous.”

Embarrassingly, Zayn flushes. He feels the heat all the way to his toes.

Liam’s eyes light up. He looks a bit amazed, like he can’t imagine he did that, or that Zayn did.

“Shush,” Zayn says, tucks Liam against him, wraps them close and _thinks I am so grateful I am here, I am so grateful you are here._

“Love the hair,” Liam whispers against his neck.

Zayn smiles small, presses his hand to the top of Liam’s shoulders, “Thank you,” he whispers back.

“Hullo! What’s this! Hugging! Without me!”

Zayn opens his eyes to Niall, rosy and grinning widely at them.

Zayn checks him over for a second, can’t help it. His cowboy costume looks like he was born with it. It’s probably not even a costume. Zayn’s pretty sure he’s seen Niall wearing all of it seriously at some point. Even the belt in the shape of Texas. Even the spurs.

The blue of the pressed button down makes his eyes look like small skies.

He laughs breathlessly, and opens one arm for Niall to launch into.

“Haz, get over here! Cuddles!” Niall shouts out as he wriggles into Liam’s side and Liam giggles back, like he just expects zir to pop up.

‘Course, Niall’s magic, so there’s almost instantly a familiar weight across Zayn’s back. The smell of vanilla and hazelnut presses him even more into the familiar array of Liam and Niall. The party swirls around them, but for a moment, Zayn lets himself be here, be steadied against the rocks of them, the cornerstones of his life.

He misses Louis.

Niall’s temple rubs against his, like he’s thinking the same. Sighing, Zayn rubs back.

Someone calls out for Liam, a hint of panic in their voice. Liam pulls away.

“Shit,” he says, looking incongruous, confused in a Batman costume.

Zayn presses his lips together so he doesn’t laugh. Harry doesn’t bother, laughs into his ear. Liam reaches over Zayn’s shoulder to flick at zir and then turns.

“Is it the tacos?” he calls as he heads into the kitchen.

“No,” someone calls back, sounding a lot like _yes_.

Niall _tsks_ beside him, side still pressed to Zayn’s, but surveying the party. Shamelessly, Zayn takes the moment to admire the lay of his collar against his neck, the sling of sunglasses in the V, which may or may not be purely aesthetic.

“I wear my sunglasses at night,” Zayn sings softly.

Behind him, Harry giggles, presses one large hand to the cinch of his ribs. Zayn looks down at it, feeling a little shocked. It frames the pulled curve of his chest well, the way the suit makes a something out of a nothing, not curved like boobs, but solid like armor maybe, like _something_.

It makes him feel a bit lightheaded.

A hand brushes his.

Zayn looks up to Niall’s eyes, back on him now.

“You look lovely,” Niall says, easy, enunciated.

Zayn’s heartbeat hurries to meet the beat of the music, throbs like bass.

“Thank you,” Zayn says, quietly.

Niall’s hand moves to fold over Harry’s for a moment. There’s an echo of Zayn’s gasp from behind him. Harry presses closer, hand curling strong against Zayn’s ribs.

It’s fine, he doesn’t need to breathe.

 He wonders if they can feel his heartbeat, trapped elated between them.

“Storm right?” Niall asks.

“Uh,” Zayn clears his throat. “Yeah, right.”

Niall’s eyes are dark, flickering from Zayn to Harry like he’s watching for something. His thumb runs along the line of where Harry’s finger curls around Zayn’s ribs and Zayn can barely feel it, swears he can feel it in his bones. Harry’s hand shakes.

“Badass chick,” Niall says softly.

And then he pulls away to slip on his sunglasses, eyes sliding behind mirrors. He smiles and turns to melt into the crowd.

They watch him go, frozen together.

The sides of it are battling in Zayn’s stomach; the sharp visceralness of Niall, _Niall_ , calling him lovely, casually playing with that line of gender and the softer, burning of Niall, _Niall_. It feels like so much.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry says behind him, harsh in that way that means ze’s feeling too much to not give it angles.

“Fuck,” Zayn echoes.

They stand still for a moment.

Zayn breathes in, holds it. Feels Harry’s hand still on him and breathes out shakily.

“We should uh.”

“Party, right,” Harry nods against the back of his neck. Zir curls tickle.

“Stop,” he elbows back into zir.

“I just said I was.”

“No, not –”

Zayn laughs, feels the tension crack between them.

Harry sniffles behind him, pinches at his hips.

“Babes,” Liam pokes his head out of the kitchen. He’s got salsa on one of his eyebrows, “Can you help with the platters? Sorry, it’s just the tacos keep cracking.”

“Good album name,” Zayn comments.

“Yes, Liam,” Harry says and nudges them forward, still digging zir hands into Zayn sides.

Twisting away, Zayn reaches Liam first, thumbs easily over the salsa splotch to clean it up.

“Whoopsie,” Zayn says softly as Liam’s nose wrinkles.

“God, how long was that there.”

“Not long, probs.”

Liam makes a sad warbling sound.

“Shh,” Zayn comforts, squishing Liam’s face in his hands, “You look mighty and –”

“Morphing?” Liam grins at him, or tries to, against the squishing.

Zayn grins back, “Silly.”

He leans forward to kiss Liam’s eyebrow a bit, rests his lips there as Liam makes a quiet happy sound. Zayn likes this, the way that Liam folds into him, that Zayn can fold over him. It’s a kind of subtle zing along his spine like, yes, here you are. He forgets about it sometimes, but it’s nice.

Harry comes up beside them, giving them a particular _look_. Zayn pulls away, goes to give zir a _look_ in return, gets sidetracked by seeing zir full on for the first time.

Everything is orange.

And sequined.

Everything is orange and sequined.

Zayn blinks at zir, like the mirage of orange and black and orange and sequins and sparkles will suddenly make sense.

It doesn’t.

Harry is tugging Liam into zir arms, kissing over the spot Zayn’s lips were, over Liam’s spongy nose, meeting his laughing for a deep kiss. There’s a faint trail of orange on his face when Harry pulls away.

Zayn is still blinking.

 “Off you go, Payno. Lipstick love,” Harry pats Liam’s butt, directing him to the bathroom.

Liam kisses zir one more time, looking blurry with happiness, and trounces off. Someone wolf whistles as he passes. He laughs back.

Harry gives Zayn a look again as ze thumbs at zir lipstick.

Zayn’s still trying to make the mirage make sense.

It’s a suit.

An orange and black striped suit with sequins like jack-o-lantern faces all over it. There’s no shirt, and where the fitted pants end, Harry’s tanned skin begins, gold against this much orange, only accentuated by the deep purple bralette ze’s wearing. The lace doesn’t cover much. Ze’s wearing pumpkin nipple pasties.

Most of zir hair is piled neatly into a tall top bun, painted a bright green.

A _pumpkin_.

“Amazing,” he says, quietly.

Harry’s moved into the kitchen, by the time Zayn gathers himself and follows.

Ze’s digging into the all the veggies that Liam’s left on the counter. Someone’s cut stuffed peppers into jack-o-lantern faces and the apples have teeth cut-outs. It’s cute. Zayn’s not gonna eat it, because there’s jello-shots with gummy worms on the table beside them and enough chips it’s excessive even for Tex-mex taste but. It’s cute.

Harry chomps down on the carrots like ze was waiting for them. The orange is darker than the orange of zir suit.

“I had a dream about this,” Zayn says faintly.

“You had a dream about what?”

“You. As a pumpkin.” Maybe he’s psychic.

“Awww,” Harry coos and pinches his cheek. “Baby, you know me so good.”

He can’t stop looking at the flashy lines of it, the sweet cut of the jacket that shows off nearly everything in a very good light. People are looking at zir starstruck, a little overwhelmed. It’s not like that’s overly unusual, Harry gets looks everywhere they go, unabashed and bright and loud as ze is. This outfit is quite _something_ though.

“Did you –” Zayn pauses, almost doesn’t want to ask, “Do all this today?”

“No,” Harry pops in another carrot, “I had the suit already.”

“Yes,” Zayn says, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Harry tries to put zir sticky fingers in his hair. He cackles, ducks into the living room to find one of the Davids to hide behind.

The house buzzes.

Zayn may not be the hugest fan of parties in his own place, but Niall runs a clean game, trash cans strategically placed in every room and doors shut with signs to not enter, most everything of interest like the turntables and the drinks outside so people congregate not by the kitchen or bathroom. Niall’s good at this, at knowing people.

Zayn pokes his side happily and leaves to steal more nachos.

There’s a cauliflower brain drip bowl set-up. He laughs. Liam pokes at his smile, grins back and tugs him into a game of _Operation_ with Andy and what looks like half the track team and some of the women’s basketball team. Zayn loses rather spectacularly, takes up position by the punch bowl and chats with Kehlani instead. She’s bright eyed and sharp against the smoothness of the rum laced lime. It’s in his shade of green and frothy like whip cream. It was made for him, really.

The party flows and wanes like all good ones do, people revolving in and out steadily.

Harry gets drunk.

Zayn watches zir a little more closely than he usually would, the way ze tips into Ryan and Bella and Kendall, before always, inevitably circling around to Niall. Sloppy, Harry presses against Niall, makes him laugh, but takes the hint when Niall turns his head away, flushed to the top of his cowboy hat. Ze circles back around and Zayn catches zir by the waist.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey,” Harry says, toning down in his arms.

Zayn presses his thumb to the line of Harry’s cheek, gentle to not disturb zir makeup, “I want him, too.”

Harry closes zir eyes and leans into him. He holds zir close.

“I just –” Harry chokes at one point, when they’ve moved to curl up on the beanbag in the corner of the room. The lights turn Harry into shifting complementary palettes. Like Harry is zir art.

The beat of the music makes Zayn want to curl up under a table and just breathe.

Niall is outside, holding court to loud cheers. They haven’t seen him in a while.

“I know,” Zayn says.

Even later, they get pulled into a complicated game of punch pong, which packs a bit more than regular beer. The added benefit, Zayn thinks as Harry throws up zir hands as Liam gets another one in, is that there’s constant arguments about the actual set of rules. He might say it’s because they’re too far gone, but generally, it’s just because they’re all from fuck knows where.

Regional Differences in Alcoholic Pastimes, Zayn thinks, and smirks around his cup.

Someone starts roasting pumpkin seeds and the smell curls like the threat of autumn. Zayn breathes deep.

Listing into Liam’s side just to see Harry puff zir cheeks out and shout, “Betrayal!” He laughs.

About the fourth game, Niall wanders by on the way to the big fridge in the garage. Zayn watches him go, the way Willie is beside him, telling a joke and the way Niall shoulders the ice bag coming back in like it’s nothing. Zayn starts a bit when Niall swings over beside him to squeeze at Liam’s love handles until he giggles, to press a big hand to Zayn’s back until Zayn wants to arch into it.

“Y’look good, hon,” Niall says, just loud enough over the music and shouting.

Zayn’s throat goes dry, even though he’s done nothing but drink.

“Said that already,” Zayn manages.

“Thought it again,” Niall says, eyes blue and intent.

Willie nudges him and they head on out with the ice.

Zayn stands there for a moment, leans discretely back against the counter by the still-on stove. His heart is echoing in his ears. The top line of his drink is wobbling.

There’s something a lot about it. About Niall complimenting something that Zayn’s done tentatively with this new found feeling inside his gender. Something about _Niall_ making it casual and intense and easy but not overlooked.

It feels like he may start crying.

He downs his drink instead.

“Put me on the next round, Payno,” he says, loud, steps forward and for one second, doesn’t care who looks or what conclusions they draw.

His stomach is on a roller coaster, but his head is already in the clouds, safe and watching the world. The suit feels good against his skin. When he shakes his head, laughing at Harry’s next throw, platinum lines the edges of his vision.

The night embosses bold in silver, stretches malleable around them.

They’re probably lit up so good Louis can look back and see them against the stars.

Eventually, the flow of the party ebbs, more people wandering out to not come back. Zayn says goodbye sloppily to Amira and Lauren and enough people he can’t quite keep track of them all. He lets Niall take the lead, flitting in between people like a firefly, ordering Zayn to clean the kitchen while Harry holds open the bag.

They prop each other up.

“Bed?” Harry whines to the house in general, somewhere after they’ve stashed the leftovers and Liam has wandered in smelling like fire and wood.

Niall waves them off from where he’s talking with someone, leaning against the door frame like he’s holding it up. Harry sighs, thankful, starts stripping off zir suit right there.

Zayn pulls Harry and him into their room, ignoring the slight hurt on Liam’s face. They’re not doing anything but sleep, Zayn thinks, petulant with alcohol.

They pull off their clothes, wobbly, taking record breaking turns in the bathroom.

Their bed is so nice.

The curtains wave gently as Zayn stares at them, upside down. Muttering, Harry flops down beside him, face first into the bed. For a long time, they lay there. Eventually, Zayn creeps his hand over to find Harry’s. He locks their fingers together. Harry squeezes back.

It eases some of the hurt, the distance that feels unfilled between them.

There’s enough space for one more, Zayn thinks.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly.

“Mm?”

“Hey,” Harry says again, propping up on one arm so Zayn can see the blurry shape of zir face in the dark, “You looked great tonight.”

Oh.

“Yeah?” Zayn feels his cheeks heat a bit.

“Yeah,” Harry smiles at him, leans forward to press a kiss to his smooth jaw. “Very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

Zayn wiggles against the sheets a little, tries to let himself feel the strange joy of it, tries to fall into it like that split second before, without feeling sick about it. He’s not sure it works, but. He’s glad he did it. He’s glad he went for it.

“I’m glad I did it,” Zayn whispers, like it’s a secret.

Harry’s smile blinds him out of the dark, “I’m so, so glad you felt safe to do it.”

Zayn closes his eyes and smiles, lays still so Harry can press small kisses into his cheek and his hair and his collar bones and the _Don’t think I won’t_ , curling zir hand over it afterwards. They fade into sleep like that, Zayn feeling held and supported and only distantly longing. October washes away in the tide of sleep.

He dreams of the ocean, of home.

 

 *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second part of this work is currently in progress.
> 
> thank you for your patience and for reading <33


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